


You Only Live Forever

by rivers_bend



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician), Tommy Ratliff (Musician)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Awkward Sexual Situations, Bad Sex, Best Friends, Car Sex, Coming In Pants, Coming Out, Fingerfucking, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Marijuana, Masturbation, Piercings, Premature Ejaculation, Semi-Public Sex, Sexting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-07
Updated: 2012-01-07
Packaged: 2017-10-29 03:37:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 68,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/315385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rivers_bend/pseuds/rivers_bend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Adam hasn’t seen his best friend Tommy much since his family moved to the other side of LA when they were eleven, and hasn’t seen him at all since Tommy’s thirteenth birthday party. Then Tommy calls out of the blue and Adam discovers the whole thing where he thinks he’d like to kiss a boy someday isn’t just theoretical. But Tommy’s changed a lot since they were little, and Adam isn’t always sure what he’s thinking.</p><p>A story of friendship, love, sex, and figuring out who you are.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Only Live Forever

**Author's Note:**

  * For [autoschediastic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/autoschediastic/gifts).



> **The Obvious:** I do not know any of the people whose names and public personas are used in this story and do not mean to imply this ever happened.  
>  **Content Notes [Warnings]:** explicit sexual content between teenagers; libido-based decision making, later regretted; pot smoking; mentions of homophobic bullying and hatespeech.

_Prologue_

Shouting so he can be heard from downstairs, Adam’s dad calls, “Adam! Get your butt in the car, or we’ll be late.”

Poking his head over the banister, Adam sees him standing by the front door, keys in hand. He has his I-have-to-drive-in-LA-traffic frown on, but it’s hardly Adam’s fault his parents decided to move to Santa Monica where you have to drive through LA to get just about anywhere, but especially back to Burbank, where they had a perfectly good house, and Adam had friends, and― _ugh_ moving is stupid. “Coming,” he says, and he is. He finally found his other shoe―in the hamper in the bathroom, because his little brother is a total dickface―and he has Tommy’s present, and his new school jeans have been washed and dried enough times that they don’t look starched to the point of standing up on their own. And he wants to see Tommy. He really does. He just doesn’t particularly want to meet any of Tommy’s new friends.

“Now, or we’re not going at all.”

Adam shuts his bedroom door tight—his parents won’t let him get a lock even though Neil always does stuff like stealing his shoes—and goes downstairs.

The party, when they get there, is pretty much what Adam expected. He’s the last one to arrive, even though they only left like three minutes after the time his dad said, and everyone is in the back yard kicking around with a soccer ball. “Go and join them, sweetie,” Mrs. Ratliff says, taking the present from him and waving out the door to Adam’s dad where he’s idling at the curb to make sure Adam gets in the house okay. Adam hated soccer when he was little and his parents thought it would be good for him, and he always thought Tommy hated it too. He seems to like it fine now though, running around with the other boys, smiling, barely pausing to say hi when Adam appears at the edge of the lawn. A tall blond kid gets the ball past another kid playing goalie between a sweatshirt and a tree, and half the boys whoop and the other half groan.

Tommy does stop then, flaps his hand at Adam and says, “C’mon, you’re on my team.” Which is something, considering Tommy knows how well Adam plays.

“I’m Mark,” says a kid in a striped polo shirt with hair like Neil’s, and another guy says, “Kevin,” and actually holds out his hand for Adam to shake. Everyone else is busy wrestling the goal-scoring kid to the ground, and don’t seem to notice Adam’s joined them.

Not that Adam ever gets a foot on the ball. No one passes it to him, and the two guys playing forward on Tommy’s team are pretty good, so Adam just kind of stands around near Kevin who’s alternating guarding the goal and shouting encouragement. Finally, Mrs. Ratliff calls them in for food.

There’s a taco bar set up on the kitchen island, and Adam waits until everyone’s done pushing and shoving to get a plate and help himself. There’s nowhere left to sit near Tommy once Adam gets to the living room, but no one is sitting in the big arm chair that used to be Adam’s favorite spot when he’d watch TV with Tommy’s family when he still lived up the street. Mr. and Mrs. Ratliff and Tommy’s sister Lisa would share the sofa, and Adam would curl up in the chair while Tommy took the giant ottoman, using Adam’s wide chair arm as a backrest. Adam settles into it now, and feels comfortable for the first time since getting out of bed this morning. The conversations going on around him become white noise, and he just watches how the boys talk to each other, who seems to be most popular, who’s nicest to Tommy.

Adam’s idly picking the scraps of lettuce off his plate, watching Tommy watch three of the other guys talking intently about something Adam thinks might be a sports team, when Tommy catches Adam’s eye and smiles. It’s not the smile Adam’s seen on his face all day, the one he’s been thinking of as new-Tommy’s smile; it's the one Adam remembers. Even as Adam feels his own face grinning back, he’s overwhelmed with hating his parents for moving, and Tommy’s parents for keeping him from going to music camp the last two years, and never wanting to drive him out to Santa Monica, and everything that means Adam hasn’t seen his _best friend_ in almost ten months. Kevin is sitting on the ottoman, and it’s on the other side of the room, but Adam wants to push him off it and drag it over so Tommy can sit next to him again and they can talk about everything, easy, without having to be cool.

But then Mrs. Ratliff comes in and says it’s time for cake, and when Adam tries to stand near Tommy at the table, Tommy moves away, stands between two of the kids who didn’t even bother looking at Adam when he got there late, leaving Adam standing mostly alone until Tommy’s dad comes out and puts a hand on Adam’s shoulder like he feels sorry for him. Because Adam wasn’t feeling enough like a loser already. When it comes time to sing, Adam just moves his mouth and doesn’t make a sound. It’s the first time Adam can remember having an opportunity to sing and not taking it.

After cake, Tommy’s dad sets up a piñata in the back yard. Tommy’s had one every year, and a lot of times Adam got to go with him and his dad to pick it out. This year he got one Adam’s pretty sure is supposed to be Freddie Krueger. Adam overhears a group of the guys complaining that they’re not little kids and piñatas are stupid. Adam’s never been all that into this part of the party, but this year he’s glad to get a chance to hit something.

Of course the boys who complained the most about having a piñata at all are the ones greediest with the candy when it spills out onto the ground. They’re grabbing it up and filling their bags when parents start to arrive. Adam doesn’t see his dad in the cluster of adults near the door, and he wishes he’d just hurry up already. Somehow when the phone rings, Adam knows it’s him, so he’s not surprised when Mrs. Ratliff comes over to say his dad’s going to be about half an hour late. Adam wonders if he can go wait on the curb. Probably Tommy’s mom won’t let him, though, even if Tommy would prefer it if he did.

But as the last of the other kids leave, Tommy smiles at him again, taking Adam’s hand and pulling him toward the stairs. “C’mon, I want to show you something,” he says, eager. Happy.

The floor is littered with books instead of comics, bits of electrical junk that might have been an amp at some point instead of legos, video games instead of board games, but thanks to the discarded clothes, looks a lot like it used to when they were little. Tommy’s bouncing on his toes like he did whenever he got a new toy he couldn’t wait for Adam to see, and Adam relaxes back onto the bed when Tommy puts him there, saying “Hang on,” heading for the dresser in the corner.

Adam’s not sure what he’s expecting, but it definitely isn’t a crumpled packet of Marlboro Menthol Lights, a lighter peeking out of the torn corner.

“Where’d you get those?” Adam hisses, not wanting to draw the attention of Tommy’s parents. He’s sure they wouldn’t approve.

"I lifted them. Want one?" Tommy flops down on the bed, head under the open window, holding out the pack.

"Won't your mom smell the smoke?"

"Nah, that's why we blow it outside. You'll have to come over here though. It's no good you sitting on the end of the bed, it's too far away." Tommy scoots up, pulling a pillow over and propping his head on the window sill. Torn between being scared of getting caught and scared Tommy will go back to ignoring him, Adam moves closer as instructed. A challenge in his eyes, Tommy hands him a cigarette and the lighter.

Adam’s never smoked, but he’s paid attention to people lighting cigarettes. Putting the filter in his mouth, he flicks the wheel of the lighter. It takes a few tries to spin it fast enough to spark the gas, and Tommy’s watching the whole time, mouth twitching. Adam wants to say, “fuck you,” wants to shove the cigarette back at Tommy and tell him to light it himself if he wants one, but he just keeps trying. When Adam finally gets the flame to touch the end of the cigarette, he sucks in too hard and ends up coughing violently, flailing, dropping the lighter and nearly burning Tommy in the face with the glowing butt-end.

"Hey! Watch it!" Tommy plucks the cigarette from his fingers, putting it between his own lips. "And quiet down will you? Mom will be up here if you keep that up."

Adam leans over Tommy to get the other pillow to muffle his coughing, and feels a warm brush of fingers on his waist, making him jerk backwards and nearly fall off the bed. When he finally gets the coughing under control, Adam looks at Tommy over the top of the pillow, finds him watching Adam through his eyelashes, cigarette held loosely between his fingers, ribbon of smoke trailing out the window. He probably thinks he looks like a rock star or something, but he just looks stupid. Adam keeps the pillow over his face. What the hell happened to his best friend? Since Adam saw him last he’s turned into kind of a jerk.

They sit in silence, Adam wishing his dad would just get here already, until, taking a final drag, Tommy stubs out the butt on the windowsill and pushes himself up on his elbows. "You okay now?" he asks.

Still watching from behind the pillow, Adam nods. Tommy’s staring at him like he’s not sure if Adam’s telling the truth or not. Adam doesn't know what to say, so he just stares back.

Shifting his weight to one arm, Tommy reaches out and draws the pillow away. Adam lets him. Reaching out again, Tommy takes Adam's wrist and pulls him forwards, ignoring Adam's resistance, tightening his grip so Adam overbalances and falls onto Tommy's chest. Adam doesn’t have the first clue what’s going on. His heart is fluttering against Tommy's ribs, and Tommy’s face is so close Adam can’t focus on it, then there’s a hand on the back of his head and Tommy's mashing his lips into Adam’s, sliding his tongue wetly between them, tasting of smoke and chocolate. He’s kissing him. They’re kissing. _Kissing_ , and it’s not like they’re playing spin the bottle or truth or dare or any of those other games Adam was glad he wasn’t going to have to worry about when he found out Tommy wasn’t having girls at his party. They’re just here in Tommy’s room and Tommy’s kissing him for no reason at all.

Planting his hands on Tommy's shoulders, Adam shoves away, slides off the bed, runs down the stairs and out the front door. He’s four streets away when he sees his father's car turn the corner. Luckily, his dad’s got his bluetooth in, and by the time he’s finished his phone call, he forgets to ask Adam why he was in the street instead of at Tommy’s house.  


* * *

  


* * *

  
It’s the tail end of summer, and Adam’s watching Rachel Maddow with his dad, waiting for it to be over so he can steal the remote and watch Project Runway. He started watching it in self defense because his friend Danielle’s obsessed with it and talks about it all the time, but it’s kind of fascinating how they turn all those scraps into actual outfits, and how do you not like Tim Gunn? Even Adam’s mom watches sometimes because she thinks he’s a sweetheart. (Adam isn’t sure that’s the word he’d use, but whatever.) When the phone rings, Eber doesn’t even glance away from the television, so Adam goes to get it.

“Hello?” He’s hoping it’s for his dad so he can maybe get the TV early and doesn’t have to risk Eber trying to watch whatever’s on after Rachel. But the voice on the other end says, “Adam?”

Since he finally got his own phone when he started high school, Dani and the kids from his theater group mostly call him on that. The voice definitely sounds like someone his age, though. “Yes?” he says.

“Hey, it’s Tommy. Whatchu doin’?”

“I― Tommy?” It’s been three years. First Adam was too embarrassed to call, then he was mad that Tommy didn’t call since it was his fault things were weird, then it had just been too long, and he had no idea what he’d say, anyway.

“Yeah, so do you wanna get some pizza tomorrow night?”

Adam’s heart is racing, his face and chest are all prickly, he can hardly breathe, and Tommy just sounds like they’re ten again, playing all day and Tommy wants to know if Adam can stay for dinner.

“Pizza?” It would be really awesome if Adam could do anything but repeat Tommy’s words back at him.

“CPK at Hollywood and Highland. Six o’clock okay for you?”

“Won’t it be kind of crowded on a Friday night?” Which sounds nothing like _Why are you calling me after three years to go have pizza in tourist hell?_ which is what Adam’s thinking.

“It’s usually worse after seven. It’ll be cool.”

Adam wants to ask why now, and why pizza, but apparently the part of him that still lies in bed at night and wonders what Tommy’s doing, and wishes he at least had a Facebook so Adam could see what he’s up to without having to have that awkward, _so remember how you kissed me that one time?_ conversation, is in charge of his mouth right now, because he says, “Okay, six o’clock,” instead. On the plus side, it doesn’t seem like Tommy’s planning on having that conversation anyway. Adam is grateful for that as Tommy says, “Later,” and hangs up.

“Who was that?” Eber asks as Adam sits down on the sofa again. Rachel is talking to the guy with red hair, so the show must be almost over.

“Tommy.”

“Tommy Joe? How’s he doing?”

Adam’s starting to wonder if he’s the only one who noticed that he and Tommy haven’t said one word to each other in three years.

“We’re having pizza tomorrow night. I guess I’ll find out then?”

“Your mom and I are going out, so we can’t drive you. Are you meeting somewhere you can take the bus?”

Adam forgot his parents had their supper club. At least he doesn’t have to watch his brother. “Yeah,” he says. “Hollywood. I’ll be fine.” Adam can’t wait til he’s sixteen. Having to get the bus everywhere blows.

“Text us if you’re going anywhere afterwards, and absolutely no getting in a car with anyone under eighteen.”

Eber reminds Adam of this rule every time he leaves the house. Adam’s stopped saying, “I know, Dad,” or trying for sarcasm; he just says, “Okay.” He doesn’t even know anyone under eighteen who drives except Marco from his theater group, and he’s a total stickler for rules and would never risk losing his license driving other kids around.

“And tell Tommy your mom and I say hi,” Eber says as he hands Adam the remote of his own volition and wanders off in the direction of the kitchen. Ignoring the bizarre turn his life has taken in the last fifteen minutes, Adam gets his phone out of his pocket and texts Danielle: “So who you think’s gettin eliminated 2nite?”

 

Tommy was right that even on a Friday, at six o’clock there isn’t too bad a wait for tables. Adam doesn’t see a sign anywhere that all parties must be present before anyone can be seated, so he puts his name down even though Tommy isn’t there yet. It’s about ten past six when they call him, and no one protests when he says his friend is on his way, they just ask if he wants a drink while he’s waiting. By six thirty, Adam’s starting to wonder if this is Tommy’s idea of a joke. Scared the waiter’s patience is going to run out, Adam orders garlic bread he doesn’t really want, then wonders why he bothered. He looks like a total loser, all alone on a Friday night in a crowded restaurant. The ice is melting in his Coke, making it taste slightly bitter. Adam’s flicked his phone open and closed a hundred times even though it’s useless because he doesn’t even know if Tommy has a cell, and it’s not like Tommy has Adam’s number to send him a message, even if he does.

“Anything else?” Adam’s waiter interrupts his internal argument about staying or going. Fuck it. Adam doesn’t have to put up with this. There’s bound to be a movie starting somewhere nearby just after seven, and at least in a crowded theater it’s not so obvious you’re alone.

“Just―“ Adam starts, intending to get the check and get the hell out, but then a familiar shape slouches through the door. Tommy’s taller now, has a ring in his lip, and another in his eyebrow, and his short brown hair has been bleached bright white, but he still has that hungry-eyed look Adam remembers from the last time he saw him. The waiter follows Adam's gaze, flaring his nostrils slightly at the boy in baggy jeans and an oversized black trench coat weaving his way through the tables. Tommy doesn't exactly blend in with the crowd.

"I'll come back to take your order," the waiter says, sounding totally unimpressed. Adam isn't impressed either, and wishes again that he'd left after the first twenty minutes.

Pulling out his chair and sliding bonelessly into it, Tommy stretches out one booted foot and nudges Adam's ankle. "Hey. Sorry I'm late. Places to go, people to do…"

Even though he’s pissed, Adam shrugs like it doesn't matter. Tommy’s―god. He’s like David Bowie meets Bender in _The Breakfast Club_ (which is still Adam’s mom’s favorite movie, even though it’s like a hundred years old). If Adam’s really honest with himself, he’ll admit that there were a few moments since Tommy’s call that he’s thought about Tommy maybe wanting to kiss him again. But there is no way this kid wants to kiss Adam. That would be like Bender wanting to kiss Brian or something. Not going to happen. Tommy’s hot. And cool. And all the things Adam isn’t. This was such a bad idea.

"We eating? I'm hungry." Tommy manages to sound like Adam’s the one nearly forty-five minutes late. Like it’s his fault they aren't already ordering dessert.

You’re the one who’s late,” Adam snaps. “We’d be eating already if you'd gotten here on time. What do you even want from me?” Adam isn't usually snippy to his friends, but he’s not even sure Tommy still falls into that category.

Tommy's lip ring twitches in amusement, but he snags his menu and doesn't say anything.

Adam chose when he first got here, but picks up his menu again for something to look at. He sees movement out of the corner of his eye and looks up to see Tommy picking up Adam's Coke and putting Adam's straw in his mouth. The tip of his tongue darts out for a moment, making Adam's stomach lurch uncomfortably. He stares dumbly as Tommy sucks up a mouthful of soda, pulling the straw out of his mouth before swallowing. "Kind of watery," Tommy says.

"The ice melted while I was waiting for you. What are you doing drinking my Coke anyway?" Adam fantasizes about pushing away from the table and striding out of the restaurant, leaving Tommy alone to pay for the glass of watery soda and the cold, rubbery garlic bread. He can sit there like he’s the one who’s been stood up. Instead, Adam snatches the glass back, plucking the straw out and throwing it on the table, and drinks down the rest in one swallow.

The waiter’s back. "What can I get you?"

Tommy goes first. "I'll have a Margherita pizza and a beer."

"I don't think so. Pizza and a Coke, maybe."

Tommy looks for a moment like he’s going to argue, but backs off under the waiter's stare. "Fine, I'll have a Coke."

"I'll have a Giardiniera and another Coke too, please." Adam’s aware he’s being extra polite out of embarrassment but he can't stop.

"Margherita and a Giardiniera and two Cokes." Rolling his eyes, the waiter tucks his pad into his apron and heads towards the back.

"Did you really think he was going to bring you a beer?"

"I've gotten beer before. Some places don't ask for ID. They can't do anything to you for asking."

Adam doesn't know what to say to that. Tommy’s fifteen. There’s no way he's ever been served alcohol in a restaurant. Tired of whatever game Tommy’s playing, Adam says, "So what are we doing here?"

"I like it here. The pizzas are good."

"But what am I doing here? Why did you call me? We haven't spoken in three years. Why now?"

Tommy worries at the ring in his lip with his teeth. "I just thought you might like to get a pizza is all. No special reason."

The waiter comes back with their drinks and Adam turns his attention to the other customers as he toys with his new straw. The other one―the one that’s been in Tommy's mouth―is still sitting on the table, right by Adam's wrist. He can feel Tommy's eyes on him, but works hard to ignore them. It’s awkward as hell, but Adam isn’t going to be the one to break. Tommy’s the one who wanted to do this, he can be the one to make conversation if he’s not even going to answer Adam’s simple questions. They’re still sitting in silence when their food comes out. Adam picks up his knife and fork and starts cutting.

Like he was just waiting for food to loosen his tongue, Tommy says, “So do you really like all those vegetables, or do you just order them to be a good boy?"

"I like vegetables." Adam tries to match Tommy's look of disdain. "Isn't that pizza boring? You could have gotten pepperoni or something."

"I like it better like this." Tommy sounds irritated, but then he breaks, grinning, looking for the first time like the kid Adam remembers, and he twirls a piece of cheese around his finger with a flourish, popping it into his mouth.

Adam can't help but smile back at the display. "Classy."

Still smiling, Tommy says, "Simple pleasures."

After that things start to get easier. Tommy drops some of his attitude and they just talk. About school, and music, and what movies they've seen recently. Definitely not about Tommy’s birthday party and what happened afterwards, though every time Tommy starts a sentence with ‘remember when’ Adam cringes inside, but Tommy just brings up old games they used to play and teachers they used to have, and the summer they taught Adam’s bunkmate how to swim in the pool at camp. By the time they’re nibbling at the last edges of crust, Adam’s actually glad he came.

They split the bill 50/50, even though Adam’s pizza cost more and Tommy didn’t eat any of the garlic bread. “Least I could do for making you wait,” Tommy says when Adam tries to argue. Adam takes it as the apology Tommy clearly intends it to be.

"Can you hang some more?" Tommy asks as they push through the doors of the restaurant into the street.

Since Adam’s parents won’t be back until late, and it’s not like he has a fixed curfew anyway, he nods, and they head away from the madness of Hollywood Boulevard until they get to a quiet street where the trees and parked cars seem part of some stage set, illuminated by the never-really-darkness of the city.

Seeing a little pocket park at the end of the block, Tommy skips ahead, twirling round and walking backwards so he can watch Adam. He narrowly avoids trampling a small dog pulled out of the way by its owner at the last moment, and then falls off the curb, laughing at Adam's wide eyes. "Come on. Hurry up," he calls, and Adam quickens his pace until they’re side by side. They cross the road to the park.

Under the shadowed side of a tree, Tommy stops and leans against the trunk. He looks dangerous, his spiky hair the only thing Adam can see clearly in the dark. It’s the exciting kind of dangerous, though, not the serial killer kind. Adam’s pretty sure that under the lip ring and bravado, Tommy’s still the kid who let Adam drive his KITT car the first day they met. Not a hundred percent sure, though, so Adam stays in the circle of light from the streetlamp.

Tommy gestures Adam closer with two slim fingers protruding from the overlong sleeve of his coat. "C'mere."

Adam takes a step closer. Impatiently, Tommy gestures again, and Adam steps close enough for Tommy to grab the front of his jacket. It’s still not serial-killer scary, but Adam is definitely reconsidering the idea that Tommy’s forgotten all about his party and would never want to kiss him. Looking down at Tommy's hand fisted around the edge of denim hanging open over his t-shirt, he imagines he can feel the heat of Tommy's knuckles on his stomach through the thin cotton and millimeters of air between them. Tommy tugs until Adam has his right foot between Tommy's boots, until their thighs are nearly touching. Adam can't fill his lungs. He stops breathing altogether when Tommy's hand releases his jacket and snakes around his waist instead.

"No running off this time," Tommy says, before pulling Adam against him with the hand on the small of his back. Adam feels Tommy's fingers twist in his hair, and then they’re kissing. Nothing like it looks on TV, it’s all sloppy with open mouths and sharp teeth, and it kind of feels like Tommy is biting Adam’s lips, which is not something Adam would have said he liked the sound of, but when it’s actually happening, it’s pretty awesome. Adam even likes metal taste of Tommy’s lip ring. They’re in a park, and it’s not that late, and anyone could see them, but Adam can’t seem to tear himself away from Tommy’s grip. He’s known for a while now that if he ever kissed anyone he hoped it would be a boy, but he never imagined it out in the open like this. He’d thought more like his college dorm, or at least someone’s house. Adam checks in with his legs, but they definitely don’t seem to be planning on running.

Releasing Adam's hair, leaving his scalp tingling, Tommy drops his hand to Adam's ass, canting his hips forwards, grinding against Adam's thigh as he pulls Adam hard against his hipbone. Adam can't tell if the soft noises reaching his ears are coming from his throat or Tommy's, or if they're swapping moans as well as spit. He pulls away, gasping for breath, flushed hot but with gooseflesh stirring the hair at the back of his neck.

Dropping his head back against the tree, Tommy breathes, "Fuck. When do you have to be home?"

Adam takes a second to figure out what the words mean and another to get what the question implies. He tries to extricate himself from Tommy's grip, but Tommy’s stronger than he looks.

"No. Come on. You want this." Tommy rubs lewdly against Adam's hard-on. "Let me touch you." The hand on Adam's ass moves towards his fly. Gripping Tommy’s wrist tightly, stopping him, Adam looks wildly around to see if anyone’s watching them. "Or come home with me. No one's there. Just for a little while. Please."

Adam does want this. He never thought he’d get it, not for years, anyway, and not with someone who looks like Tommy looks, and he’s still not sure he’s ready to admit he thinks about boys like this to his parents or his friends or anyone, but there is no way he’s saying no.

When Adam nods, Tommy kisses him once, hard on the lips, and taking his hand, runs for the metro.

They have to stand on the train, but once they get off the metro and emerge onto the street again it’s quiet. Too late for commuters and too early for the nightlife crowd to be heading home, the bus when it comes is almost empty. There are four girls near the front laughing and shrieking over something one of them is holding, and a guy sleeping with his head against the window, but Tommy and Adam are alone in the back. Tommy’s hand is on Adam's dick through his jeans, the skirt of his coat draped over Adam's lap. Adam wants to stop him, wants to thrust into that hand until he comes, wants to suck on Tommy's lip ring and tongue. Instead he sits, stock still, watching Tommy's reflection in the glass as Tommy smirks in the direction of the giggling gang.

They wind through Studio City, Tommy's hand a constant tease making Adam's breath catch and his thighs clench so tightly they ache. When the girls pile off the bus Tommy leans in and bites Adam's earlobe. "Next stop," he whispers, and squeezes to emphasize his point. Adam bites his tongue and shuts his eyes, wishing desperately that Tommy would just leave him alone for a minute to let him get some air in his lungs.

A group of older boys, sixteen or seventeen years old, push and shove their way to the fare box. Tommy apparently has some sense of self preservation left; by the time they’ve paid the driver, his hands are in his own lap and he’s leaning away from Adam, looking out the opposite window. The bus lurches, knocking the smallest boy hard into the biggest. The tall one shoves him into a seat. "Hey, faggot, watch where you're going."

Adam thinks he might throw up. The Tommy he knew would never talk to strangers on a bus, never do anything to call attention to himself, but this new Tommy might do anything. Adam’s night can only handle so much excitement.

Nothing else happens though. The small boy holds out a placating hand, and says, "Sorry, sorry. I just lost my balance." Everyone ignores him.

When they've all settled into seats, Tommy stands and presses the bell. Hunching in an effort to hide the bulge in his jeans, Adam follows him over the obstacle course of sprawling legs to the stairs. The cool air when the bus doors open to release them into the night is a relief.

They’re still several blocks from Tommy's house, one street up from the corner where Eber picked up Adam after the first time Tommy kissed him. “Shit,” Adam says. “Gotta text my parents.” He doesn’t say that he’s pretty sure his dad meant the movies or something, not Burbank, when he said Adam could go somewhere after dinner, because he doesn’t want to seem like a dork who has to check in every time he does anything, but Tommy doesn’t comment. Adam’s had plenty of practice texting and walking, so letting his parents know he’s safe but will be home late doesn’t slow them down. He’s about to slide his phone back into his pocket when Tommy grabs it from him.

“Giving you my number,” Tommy says before Adam has time to protest. Adam’s distracted by Tommy’s fingers as he slides the phone back into Adam’s pocket, and doesn’t notice that Tommy doesn’t put Adam’s number in his own phone.

By the time he’s over the brush of Tommy’s fingertips, they’re passing Adam’s old house―painted something dark now, instead of the pale gray it was when he lived there―then they’re in Tommy’s front yard, then on his porch, then inside with the door shut and nothing but the way Adam seems to be totally paralyzed to stop them kissing again.

“Want a drink?” Tommy offers.

Adam shakes his head.

“Wanna go upstairs?”

Licking his lips nervously, Adam nods.

Tommy's bedroom is no cleaner than the last time Adam saw it, and Tommy has to kick aside a pile of books and clothes to clear a path from the door to the bed. The bed Adam’s sat on more times than he could count, the bed he’s slept on when Tommy was being generous and taking the sleeping bag on the floor, the bed where Adam had his first and only kiss. Until tonight. Tonight there has definitely been kissing. And now there’s a bed and they’re going to do more than kissing, probably, if Adam can just keep breathing.

Like all of this isn’t remotely terrifying, Tommy flings his coat casually over his desk chair and urges Adam closer so he can push Adam's jacket off his shoulders to get lost in the general mess on the floor. Adam can hear his own mom preaching about hanging things up when you’re done with them, and Tommy’s mom telling Tommy that Adam will have to go home if he doesn’t get all the dirty clothes in the hamper by the time she counts to ten, and Adam really doesn’t want to be thinking about anyone’s parents right now. “C’mon,” Tommy says. “Don’t you wanna―“

Adam does want to, except now Tommy’s tugging at Adam's shirt like he’s planning on taking it off. The lamp on his desk is shining on Adam like a spotlight, and Adam isn’t ready to be shirtless in the spotlight. Not with Tommy, who seems to have skipped the part of puberty where your height hasn’t quite caught up with your weight, and who doesn’t seem to have any pimples or freckles or any of the other things that make Adam frown when he looks in the mirror. It’s not like when they were little and it didn’t matter what either of them looked like. Tommy wants to kiss Adam now, and Adam would like him to keep wanting that. Squeaking a little in protest, Adam takes Tommy’s hands off the hem of his shirt, lifting them around his neck, then puts his own on Tommy’s waist like they’re slow dancing.

“I want to,” he says when Tommy looks at him quizzically.

Fortunately, Tommy doesn’t ask questions, just takes advantage of his new grip to pull Adam down, kissing and biting the spot under his ear. It feels so fucking good, like when Tommy was grinding on him in the park, and Adam forgets all about wishing Tommy would let him leave his shirt on, and sinks onto the bed, pulling Tommy down on top of him.

They grapple, mouths and hands hot on each other's skin, Adam thinking, _this is making out. **This** is making out. This is making **out**_ , until he’s not thinking about anything at all except how Tommy needs to be _closer_. Everything is hot. So, so hot, and clothing gets pushed and tugged and stretched, legs tangle and press, and Adam wonders if it’s actually possible to go on kissing forever.

Finally they lie panting―Adam with one foot on the floor, Tommy half on top of him, his booted feet hanging off the side of the bed. "No shoes on the bed,” Tommy says, somehow sounding both firm and like the rule is a surprise to him right now.

Disentangling his fist from Tommy's twisted t-shirt, Adam allows him to sit up and unlace his boots. Adam would like to take his own shoes off, but Tommy’s sitting between his splayed legs and he isn't sure he can sit up. Or convince his fingers to work. Besides, he likes watching Tommy taking his boots off. He likes it even more when Tommy takes his shirt off next.

When he realizes Adam’s just lying there, Tommy nudges his thigh, then fingers the hem of Adam's shirt, running the flat of his hand across Adam's stomach. "Shirt off too." That idea’s still not Adam’s favorite, but the bed’s mostly in shadow, and the need to have Tommy closer is still buzzing under his skin, so Adam lets Tommy pull him upright. While he’s toeing off his shoes, Tommy takes care of his shirt for him. Despite his determination to be as casual about it as Tommy is, Adam crosses his arms over his chest and shivers in the draft coming around the edge of the window.

"Do you want to get under the covers?"

Adam nods.

They lie down next to each other, comforter up to their shoulders. Adam thinks now that they’re actually _in_ Tommy’s bed it might be like when they were six and hiding under the covers with a flashlight trying to finish the Lego Death Star after final, final lights out time, but it’s nothing like that at all, and he isn't sure what he’s supposed to do. But then he doesn't have to think about it because Tommy’s pushing him down onto his back and kissing him again, and Adam's arms wrap around Tommy's waist of their own accord.

Making out with no shirts on is totally amazing; Adam could probably get off forever on just thinking about Tommy lying on top of him like this. The heat and weight of him, the slightly sticky friction as they shift and move, and god, the way Tommy feels under his hands. Tommy’s skin is thin and stretched tightly over his bones, but it moves under Adam's fingers, softer and more pliable than he expected, not really that different from Adam’s own. Then Tommy’s hand is on Adam's stomach again, fingers teasing under his waistband, and all thoughts of skin are replaced with a need to have those fingers wrapped around him, tempered, as Tommy’s fingers grow more determined, by a fear of Tommy touching him there without the dubious protection of denim.

Tommy apparently has no such fear because he’s fumbling with Adam's button and zipper, pushing Adam's boxers out of the way, and sighing into Adam's mouth as his hand reaches flesh. "You're so _hard_.”

Adam face heats up and he starts to protest, but Tommy’s kissing him again and it seems that wasn’t a complaint. Tommy’s hard too―Adam can feel it against his hip. He must want this, or he wouldn’t be here, his thigh heavy on Adam's leg, his fingers cupping the back of Adam's head. Taking a deep breath, Adam thrusts into the hand stroking him, tilting his head back, remembering how it felt to have Tommy kissing his neck. Tommy chases his lips, and Adam turns his head more, dragging air in through his mouth against the intensity of the hand moving on his dick, hoping Tommy will get the hint.

“You okay?” Tommy asks, slowing down to a torturous pace.

“Fine,” Adam gasps, going to kiss him again. He doesn’t want Tommy to feel like he’s doing something wrong.

“What d’you want?” Tommy speeds up again jerking Adam off, but he’s propped on one elbow, out of reach of Adam’s lips.

“Nothing,” Adam tries, too embarrassed to ask Tommy for anything more that what he’s already doing. “That’s good.”

But Tommy nudges Adam’s face to the side again with his nose, and kisses the spot below Adam’s ear. “This?” he asks.

Adam can only jerk in response, the whisper of a whimper escaping his throat.

“Yeah,” Tommy says, does it again, mouth open this time, wetter, the ring in his lip sliding over Adam’s skin. “Yeah. You like that.”

Adam really, really does. It doesn’t even matter that Tommy’s getting distracted from the smooth tugs on Adam’s dick, his rhythm going ragged, concentrating too much on the base. Adam’s clutching him with abandon, fingers digging into ribs and ass and waist, up to grip his shoulders, then back down again, trying to pull him in while he arches up into Tommy’s mouth.

“More?” Tommy asks, breathless, and Adam starts whining, “Yeah, yeah, _yeah_.”

Licking, sucking, kissing his way down Adam’s throat, getting rougher as he goes, Tommy nips at the skin over his collarbone and then bites hard into his chest, sucking a bruise up into his mouth, edges defined by the twin curves of his teeth. It hurts more than Adam expected, the blood throbbing against Tommy’s tongue and in Adam’s cock, and he gasps, twisting against the weight of Tommy's leg, thrusting hard into the fingers tightening around him, coming messily over himself and Tommy's hand and the sheets.

When he looks down at Adam, Tommy has a gleam in his eye that makes Adam look away. It’s like Tommy can see every thought Adam’s ever jerked off to in secret, and Adam can't face anyone else knowing about all that. "I should go," he mumbles into the pillow.

"Not yet." Tommy takes Adam's hand and places it over the bulge in his jeans. "My turn." And god, right, Adam totally isn’t going to be that guy. The selfish lover guy who only cares about his own orgasms. It’s not like he spends all his time reading his mom’s magazines or anything, but he’s read enough to know that’s not cool. Besides which, wow. That’s Tommy’s dick, like right there, and Adam is really into that. Like, super-a-lot, being-gay-is-not-just-a-theory into that.

None of the porn or the jerking off or the fantasizing prepared Adam for the feel of another guy's dick in his palm. It isn't like having his hands on himself; it’s the wrong angle and a different shape. But even with the wrong hand, it feels good. So fucking good. But still the wrong angle and Adam hasn’t got the first clue what the hell he’s doing, and Tommy is seriously in a hurry, undoing buttons, shoving Adam’s hand down and in.

"No, I'm right handed," Adam blurts at the first touch of skin. He’s got no hope at all of being good if he’s doing this with the wrong hand.

Trying to get a better position, Tommy rolls further on top of Adam, but there’s no room on the other side of him to lie. "Stupid single bed. Scoot over." Tommy lifts up a bit to give Adam wiggle room.

It shouldn’t be this difficult, but it takes forever to get themselves situated so Adam can use his right hand. When he’s got it, though, it feels even better. It’s still an awkward angle, and it’s strange to have all the sensation in his hand with none on his dick, but Adam is definitely into boys. He can feel the weight of Tommy, the heat, and the softness of his skin, and even better, they’ve pushed the covers off in their maneuvering and Adam can _see_ the way Tommy’s dick pops out of the circle of his fingers, how red it is, how it’s getting so so slippery the more Adam squeezes and pulls.

“You’re―“ he starts, but it might be rude to point out that Tommy leaks a lot more than Adam does, and besides, Tommy’s shaking and his eyes are squeezed shut tight, and there’s no way he’s even listening. Adam always likes it fast and tight right before he comes, and he hopes Tommy does too. Everything’s so much, hot and close, Tommy’s breath on the side of Adam’s face as he stares down at Tommy’s dick in his hand, watches Tommy’s hips lift as he shoots up over his chest and belly, and Adam thinks maybe he could go again. That it could be like an endless cycle of handjobs and kissing. But when Tommy drops his head heavily to the pillow, all the tension leaking out of him, Adam rests his head on Tommy's shoulder, sharp need dialing back to a satisfied hum. He did that. He made Tommy come all over himself. Curious, Adam runs a finger through the cooling streaks on Tommy's skin and puts it to his tongue.

Tommy shifts, twisting to look at him. "What are you doing?"

Adam doesn't know. "I don't know."

"You're different than I remember."

Adam tenses. Tommy’s obviously done this before. Maybe Adam’s doing it wrong. Probably you’re only supposed to taste a guy’s jizz when you’re actually sucking his dick.

Tommy pokes him gently. “Never said that was a bad thing."

Adam pulls the blanket back up so it’s covering Tommy’s dick and the come that Adam still kind of wants to play with.

“Really. It’s cool.” Tommy sounds like he means it.

Adam relaxes a little under Tommy's stroking fingers, says, "So seriously, why'd you call me?"

Tommy squeezes him tighter. "This wasn't a good enough reason?"

Giving himself a moment to think of an answer, Adam pulls the covers higher, tucking them in. And realizes that’s an answer in itself.

"Thought so," Tommy says into Adam's hair.

 

No curfew doesn't mean Adam can stay out all night without calling, but by the time he wakes up again, the buses have stopped running. The rule is that it's never too late to phone, but the chances of his dad wanting to drive out to Burbank at half past two in the morning are pretty slim. Adam's not sure if Tommy's parents are out for the night or if they're away, or maybe they came home while Adam and Tommy were asleep and they're gonna freak out if he's still here when they wake up. He's not sure what to do.

"Stop wiggling," Tommy mutters, pushing Adam's chest with a sleep-heavy hand. "Sleepin'."

"I think I have to go." Adam whispers, in case the Ratliffs are home.

"No buses 'til like 4:30." He still doesn't open his eyes, but Tommy moves his leg, making Adam realize he has no feeling at all in his left foot where Tommy's been crushing it.

Adam really has to call his folks. But the last thing he wants to do is get in trouble with Tommy's parents. "Are your parents home?" At least he can know how quiet he needs to be.

"Nah. Hawaii."

Adam would be pissed if his parents went to Hawaii without him, but Tommy just sounds bored. Actually, Adam might sound bored at two in the morning, too, and he'd be fine if they went to New Jersey to visit relatives without him, and Adam's pretty sure he remembers that's where some of Tommy's family lives. "Sorry," Adam says, still whispering, but not as quietly. "I've really gotta call my dad." He tries to lean over Tommy to get to his jacket on the floor, but it's too far to reach. "Sorry," he says again, and starts climbing over Tommy's legs.

"Gotta piss anyway," Tommy grumbles, finally opening his eyes and squinting at Adam in the light from his computer screen. "C'we go back to sleep after, though?”

That at least answers Adam's question about whether Tommy wants him to leave now. While Tommy's in the bathroom Adam checks his phone. Two missed calls and a text saying that if ‘I’m going to Tommy’s house’ meant spending the night he should have said that.

Adam calls his parents and explains that he's safe and still has his bus pass and will be home in the morning. “You need to tell us what you’re doing, Adam, your mother and I aren’t mind readers.”

“I did text,” Adam reminds him. Even though it will just mean a more long-winded version of the SMS lecture his dad already sent.

Tommy comes back while Eber is droning on at Adam about being more precise when he’s sending texts and telling him to get some sleep and they'll talk more in the morning. Tommy's not wearing any of the clothes he fell asleep in. He's not wearing any clothes at all.

"Oh," Adam says, thumbing the hang-up on his phone.

"Fucking jizz all over my pants," Tommy mutters, climbing under the blankets. He holds them up like he's waiting for Adam to join him.

Adam would love to join him. As soon as his legs unfreeze and his eyes stop trying to bore into the shadows to see Tommy's dick.

"Should I―" he says, trying to encompass _take my jeans off too_ and _get in_ and _jump you again or let you sleep_ in a single gesture, but probably failing to convey any of them.

"Just fucking get over here," Tommy says.

In a fit of panicked compromise Adam takes off his jeans and leaves on his come-stained boxers, crawling under the sheets into the tiny space Tommy's left for him. Single beds kind of suck for sharing once you've hit puberty. Except for how he's forced to lie practically on top of Tommy. Naked Tommy. Oh god.

Probably some, like, eighty-year-old guy with prostate cancer or something could avoid getting a boner sharing a single bed with a naked dude who just gave him his first hand job, but Adam is so not that guy. He tries to hunch his hips and keep it to himself―since turning over now would be completely obvious―but Tommy throws his arm across Adam's waist and wriggles closer.

"We're both guys," he says, but his voice is all slurry like he's almost asleep again, so that obviously means, _I don't care if you're hard_ rather than, _here let me take care of that for you._

Adam's actually pretty okay with that. His dad and Tommy can't both be wrong; he probably should get some sleep. It won't be the first time he's drifted off in the middle of the night with a tent in his shorts.

 

Tommy's still asleep when Adam wakes up again, this time with the sun glinting into his eyes. Adam squints at the offending reflective surface and finds a cheap-ass sports trophy, the same one that's still on the top shelf of his parents' bookshelves at home, from Adam's one year playing soccer when he was eight. Despite how much Adam had sucked, his team had made it to league championship even with the requirement that all the players, including Adam, played at least half the game.

The trophy seems out of place with all Tommy's goth rocker paraphernalia, but looking around there are other things too that are clearly just left over from another era: a flocked kangaroo coin bank Adam remembers Tommy getting for Christmas from his dad's friend when they were seven or so; a handful of Matchbox cars; an old clay handprint they made in kindergarten; a plastic slinky. That's the thing about not moving. You don't ever have to sort through your stuff.

Adam finds the dim glow of numbers coming from Tommy's clock. 7:37. He really should go. It's gonna take like two hours to get home from here, and he doesn't want to try his parents' patience. He tries to wake Tommy up, but only gets a grumble in response, so he finds his clothes and uses the bathroom to get cleaned up and dressed before trying again.

"I'll call you," Tommy murmurs when Adam finally gets him to understand that he has to leave.

"I'm not some girl," Adam says, because he's not, but he really kind of wants to see Tommy again, even if they don't do the sex stuff―the sex stuff is awesome, but he really did miss his best friend―so he adds, "I'm going to see that Hitchcock thing at the ArcLight next week if you want to come."

"Hell, yeah, Hitchcock," Tommy says, but his eyes are closing again and he's tucking the covers up under his chin.

Adam sees himself out.  


* * *

  
Tommy doesn't call, and doesn't text back when Adam texts him to check if he wants to meet up first or meet at the theater for the Hitchcock retrospective. It’s not that there's any reason Adam can't call Tommy, except once he's texted him three times and gotten no reply he feels like calling might be edging into stalker territory. _Cosmo_ and _Teen Vogue_ don’t exactly tell you what you’re supposed to do when the guy you were best friends with your whole childhood calls you up after three years, acts like a jerk, gives you a handjob in his bed, then doesn’t return your texts.

Since he was going to go on his own anyway before he asked Tommy, Adam just does what he’d usually do, which is turn up at the box office forty-five minutes before doors to get tickets, then go get fish tacos while he waits for the doors to open. He doesn’t text Tommy to see if he should get an extra seat, but he does maybe send one just to let Tommy know he’s over at Baja Fresh, just in case. His phone buzzes two seconds after he hits send, and his heart jumps, but it’s only Danielle telling him to have fun and not let _The Birds_ give him nightmares.

Sitting in the theater on his own waiting for _Rope_ to start, Adam reminds himself it's not like they're boyfriends. They used to know each other and they had some pizza and they hooked up. Tommy probably hooks up a lot. He's really fucking hot, and cool and all confident and shit. And sure, after a rocky start it had been almost like old times, talking and joking around, but that doesn’t mean Tommy wanted to be, like, best friends again. They still live on opposite sides of the city, and the buses are really fucking slow, and obviously Tommy is busy and stuff. Adam’s busy too. School’s gonna be starting soon, and he’s got drama and choir, and his mom said he can start voice lessons again if he wants to, now that his teacher’s back from her trip to Africa, so maybe it’s better if he and Tommy don’t try to hang out or anything.

Except Adam really, _really_ wants to. When he was just watching GayTube late at night with the sound muted, jerking off to the pretty guys touching each other, Adam was okay with waiting until he went to college to have actual sex with an actual boy. But now that he knows what he’s missing, he can't stop masturbating.

He hasn't worried that his dick would fall off since he was twelve and his mom told him that Gary Stukey was lying and if touching yourself feels good you should do it as much as you want as long as it isn't interfering with your schoolwork and blah blah some other stuff that frankly Adam was too embarrassed to listen to once he got the message that he wasn't going to lose his junk if he played with it too much. But he's been doing it so often lately that it doesn't always feel good. Sometimes it _hurts_. And not in the fun way he read about in the magazine Danielle found under her dad's toolbox in the garage. More a raw, red, chaffing kind of pain. And he'll promise he isn't going to do it again until the redness goes away, and then he'll smell tomato sauce, or hear a bus going past, and the memory of Tommy's hands on him is so strong it's a kick in the gut, and he's got his hand in his pants before he knows it. Being fifteen sucks sometimes. Especially when it's so much like being thirteen, because he really thought he'd outgrown this.

If the theater weren’t so crowded, Adam would probably have his hand in his pants right now. Or, not really, because that’s just creepy and gross, but he’s thinking about it, and that can’t be a good sign. He’s always fucking thinking about it, and that’s the problem. Shoving Tommy and his hands and mouth and bed and― Yeah. Not helping. Shoving _all_ the thoughts out of his head, Adam tries to concentrate on the conversation the girls next to him are having while they wait for the lights to go down. But they start talking about how the murderers in the movie are really gay, and they couldn’t show it because it was like 1950 or something―Adam doesn’t correct them on the year―but everyone knew it, like in _Cat on a Hot Tin Roof_ , and wasn’t Paul Newman like the hottest ever, and that isn’t distracting Adam from sex _at all_. He considers going and jerking off in the bathroom, but he’s in the middle of the row, and the lights are dimming, so he ends up just pressing his ice-cold drink to his crotch and waiting it out.

 _Rope_ isn’t exactly a boner killer, but _Psycho_ for sure is, and by the time they get to the break before _North by Northwest_ , Adam isn’t tempted at all to do anything more than piss during the intermission. The crowd by concessions is crazy, people stocking up on popcorn and soda to sustain them through another two films, but it feels too good to stand up and move around for Adam to take refuge in his seat again until he has to. Besides, he’s found a good vantage point on some stairs, and it’s interesting to see who’s here, the mix of people old enough to have seen at least some of these movies the first time around, film-school hipsters with their stupid sunglasses and skinny jeans and scarves even though it’s August in LA, and families and couples, and just people like Adam who like Alfred Hitchcock movies.

Then, across the foyer, Adam sees someone short and slight with a shock of bleached-blond hair, a mess of spiked and floppy and shaved on the sides, and he thinks, _he came. Tommy came!_ He’s pissed Tommy didn’t bother texting him, and frustrated that there are so many people he’s got to fight through to get to him, and there’s still a chance they’ll get called back in before he makes contact, but at least he came.

Except just as Adam’s close enough to say his name, a girl in an _I’m not gay but my girlfriend is_ t-shirt comes up and kisses the blond on the lips, and they turn, and it’s not Tommy at all. Her hair is almost exactly the same, and she’s got the same boy hips and black belt that isn’t doing much to hold her jeans up, but those are definitely boobs stretching out the Vertigo graphic on her chest. It’s a pretty cool t-shirt, but it would probably look better on Tommy.

He’s not really in the mood for more movies, but he’s paid for the ticket, and his mom isn’t due to pick him up until ten, so Adam buys himself some insanely expensive Junior Mints and heads back inside, where, on the plus side, Roger Thornhill is having a worse day than he is. Tommy might be an asshole, but at least no one is kidnapping Adam or trying to kill him with an airplane, and he’s pretty sure that no matter what happens, Tommy's never going to make him scale Mount Rushmore pursued by gunmen in ugly suits.  


* * *

  
It's 10:45 on Saturday morning and Adam's eating pancakes with his parents and his brother when the phone rings. Neil, who has a birthday party to go to later and is waiting to hear if he can get a ride with his best friend, Stephen, or if Stephen is still grounded, flies to answer it.

"No," he says, and then, "Fine," and he slams the phone down on the counter and sulks his way back to the table.

"Who was it?" Leila asks when he starts picking at his pancakes.

"It's for Adam."

Not for the first time, Adam wonders exactly what the rules are for justifiable homicide. "You couldn't bring me the phone?"

"What, did you break your legs?"

The only person Adam might want to talk to who would call his land line is Tommy, and Tommy clearly has no intention of ever calling him again, so it's hard to get enthused about having to get up from his breakfast to answer, but he's not going to compound his brother's rudeness. The display says, _unknown number_ , so Adam's a little wary when he says, "Hello?"

"Hey," a familiar voice says. Adam can't quite place it until, "I forgot to put your number in my phone or something," follows, and Adam realizes it actually _is_ Tommy.

"That's okay," Adam says while he considers and rejects, _Is that why you never texted me back?_ and the only possibly less desperate-sounding, _I’ll put my name on my texts next time,_ and, _I'm glad you called._ He goes with, "What's up?"

"Wanna maybe hang out today?"

Adam wanted to hang out at the movies three weeks ago, but whatever. He's over it. Mostly. "Sure," he says. "What'd'you wanna do?"

"Beverly Center? And then, like, I don't know," Tommy says. He doesn't really seem like the shopping type, but there's food and a movie theater and stuff, and Adam knows people go just to hang out. He can totally do that, he's sure.

"What time?"

"I'm leaving now, so like two hours?" He's taking the bus, then. Adam's hoping he can get a ride from his mom or dad.

"I'll text you my number so we can find each other."

"Yeah, cool. I don't know what happened," Tommy repeats.

When Adam sits down at the table again, both his parents are looking at him quizzically.

"I'm just gonna go to the mall with Tommy," Adam says casually. He dodged their questions last time when they wanted to know what had prompted him and Tommy getting together again, and he didn't tell them about Tommy standing him up or anything. They haven't asked him if he was dating anyone since eighth grade when he and Danielle went to the Christmas Formal together and he gave them a lecture delivered mostly at screaming volume about how boys and girls could be friends and everything didn't have to be about sex all the time. He doesn't want to talk about what he is doing with boys any more than he wanted to talk about what he wasn't doing with girls.

"I have to get something at the Apple Store if you want a ride," Eber says.

"Cool." Adam stuffs a forkful of pancakes in his mouth like he wasn't gonna ask for a ride if no one offered. Perfect.

There ends up being drama over Neil's party, and it's more like two and a half hours before Adam can get to the mall. He's torn between stressing about being late and feeling a vicious stab of justification given how long he waited for Tommy at the pizza place and the fact Tommy never showed up at all to the ArcLight. They text back and forth the whole time Adam's in the car with his dad and Neil, Tommy making snarky comments about the people on the bus and then people at the mall, Adam laughing at Tommy's observations and complaining about emo twelve year olds. When he finally texts, _Here_ , as his dad drops him off, Adam's surprised when the return text says, "in sephora. meet u there."

Sephora is like Danielle's favorite store, and Adam's bought some stuff there for drama class, but he can't really picture Tommy wandering among the liners and polishes and brushes. When he gets there, Tommy is definitely not wandering. He's sitting on a stool, eyes rimmed with heavy kohl and thick mascara, with a Slave-to-the-Rhythm era Grace Jones look-alike (seriously her hair is amazing) painting his lips with something so dark it's almost black. Adam stops and stares as she fits her little brush under Tommy's lip ring, carefully tracing the edge of his lip and then pulling the line all the way across to the opposite corner.

Adam wants to pin Tommy to the floor and rut up against him until neither of them can breathe. Which is not all that conducive to his being able to breathe normally even just standing there. It's also not his usual reaction to seeing a guy in makeup. Adam makes an awkward and totally involuntary noise which draws Tommy's attention from the mirror he's holding in front of his face.

Somehow―Adam wonders how much practice he's had―Tommy doesn't move his mouth at all, but he does a sort of eye-widening thing that seems to imply _hello_ and _I'll be done in a minute_ and _what do you think?_ all at once.

"Fuck me," Adam chokes out, not at all what me meant to say, because it's far to close to what he's actually thinking.

"I told you I was good, honey," Grace says, smiling at Tommy as she finishes his lips with a final dab of her brush.

"You did," Tommy agrees, putting down the mirror and picking up the lipstick, checking the bottom. "I'll take this―" he looks at Adam for a second. "And the eye stuff."

Grace looks at Adam, too, her smile widening. "Good choice," she says over her shoulder to Tommy as she goes off to get his things.

"Do you do this often?" Adam asks, giving up on not staring. Tommy's eyes are crazy beautiful.

"Nah. Tried my sister's eyeliner and liked how it looked, but she threatened to run me over with Dad's car if I used it again, so I thought I'd get my own. I was gonna just get the cheap stuff, but then I saw this place and thought, why not?"

Why not indeed. Except for how they're at the mall on a Saturday and there are like eleven thousand other kids here and at least half of them probably like to beat up guys in makeup. Adam's not sure if Tommy hasn't thought about that or if he just doesn't care. He thinks it might be a combination of both, and his stomach twists with jealousy. Adam can talk the talk about not caring what other people think, but he's actually totally hung up on it. Since about the time they moved to Santa Monica and he started junior high, actually. Only when he's up on stage does he feel brave enough to wear whatever he wants.

"You look amazing," Adam says past the lump in his throat.

"Hell, yes, I do." Tommy jumps off the stool, hip-checking Adam's thigh as he goes past on his way to the counter to pay.

It doesn't occur to Adam until Tommy's walking toward him again that it would have looked less odd if he'd gone to the counter with Tommy instead of standing next to a perfume display clutching the edge of a shelf staring at Tommy's lips while he chatted with the sales girl. "You're a fucking creeper," he mutters to himself, singing a snatch of the song on the PA to cover his lips moving when he realizes it was actually aloud.

"Dude," Tommy says. "Celine Dion? Really?"

There's a comeback there about Tommy knowing who it is, but Adam can't find it. "You wanna get something to eat?" he says instead.

"You're totally buying me fucking Chipotle." Tommy swings his Sephora bag so it hits Adam's wrist. "This shit is expensive."

"I didn't tell you to buy it," Adam protests.

Tommy just laughs. Apparently the staring wasn't subtle in any way.

"Fine," Adam says. "But I get to borrow the eyeliner sometime."

"Maybe." Tommy skips ahead and turns to walk backwards like Adam isn't walking fast enough. "Carnitas with black beans and the works. Biggest Coke they have."

"You get everything you want, don't you?" Adam asks.

Tommy laughs so hard at that he nearly falls on his ass.

The line at Chipotle is out the door which means they have to stand in front of California Pizza Kitchen. Adam's hit with a flood of remembered embarrassment, transported back to the table in Hollywood with the waiter giving him pitying looks while he waited for Tommy. But Tommy doesn't seem to get the connection, just leaning against the window like some kind of supermodel in his makeup and ripped jeans and faded concert t-shirt. Adam can't help staring at him, and he catches a few other people staring too, including a guy in jeans so tight Adam's not sure how he can walk. Tommy meets the dude's gaze and blows him a kiss, which the guy catches and presses to his crotch.

Adam tries not to look too horrified, while Tommy laughs and the guy winks and carries on into the mall, but he can't help asking, "Did you know he was gonna do that?"

Tommy snorts dismissively, shrugging up off the window so they can move forward in the line. "Put my kiss on his dick? Nah. Figured he'd appreciate it, though."

Wondering if the guy speculated about whether Adam was with Tommy or with-with him, or if he'd even noticed Adam at all, Adam misses when the line moves again, and Tommy has to grab his wrist and tug him up to the door of the restaurant. Then he doesn't let go. They're not really holding hands, and from most angles it probably looks like they're just standing face to face, but Adam can feel a flush starting on his cheeks and a thousand stares prickling at the back of his neck.

"Dude, chill," Tommy says, dropping Adam's wrist like it's hot.

"I'm not―" but he was. Somehow he manages not to look around to see who's watching when he reaches for Tommy's hand, hooking their fingers together. "This is better," he says.

Tommy rolls his eyes, but he doesn't let go.

They eat, Tommy finishing Adam's burrito when he can't, and then Tommy asks if Adam wants to go to The Grove. Adam is starting to re-evaluate his assumptions about Tommy's shopping habits.

The bus stop on Third is crowded, but Tommy doesn't have Adam's hesitancy to push past people who've been waiting longer, so they manage to get seats right at the back. There's no trench coat today for Tommy to grope him under, and there are bodies pressed all around them besides, but Adam's still a little bit disappointed. Tommy isn't even paying any attention to him, leaning over to look out the window.

"We don't get off til Fairfax," Adam says. "It's a few more stops."

But Tommy straightens up and says, "No. Here," as the bus swings to a halt, and stands to squeeze through the crowds toward the door. Adam trips on someone's shopping trying to follow him, elbowing a woman in the back of the head, leaving a string of clumsy apologies in his wake while Tommy holds the bus door open making it beep. When he escapes the bus and looks around, they're standing in front of a bakery.

"You can't need more food. Seriously."

"Nah, gotta see a friend about something across the street. It'll just take a second."

Across the street there seems to be a beauty salon. "Okay," Adam says. They wait for the light to cross, Adam patiently, Tommy twitching and staring at the traffic like he can make it stop if he just glares hard enough. Adam's tempted to fling Tommy's "dude, chill," back at him, but he doesn't want that glare turned in his direction.

They don't stop at the salon, heading back up toward the Beverly Center another block until they get to an auto shop. "Wait here," Tommy says, almost a whisper, though they're alone on the corner of a busy intersection in LA, so Adam's not sure who might overhear them.

Adam doesn't want to wait here, but before he can say anything, Tommy's trotting down the side of the building toward a driveway at the back. Adam decides he'd rather wait than follow him. He's true to his word, doesn't take long, is back with a smile on his face in less than three minutes.

"Cool," he says when Adam looks at him quizzically. "We can walk from here; it's just a few blocks."

When they get to the Farmer's Market, Adam figures they'll wander around, look at things, but Tommy darts through the crowd, ignoring all the vendors, and heads for the parking garage.

"Now where are we going?" Adam's panting a little trying to keep up.

"Nowhere," Tommy says, slowing down once they're walking through the garage doors. Adam really hopes they aren't here to steal cars or something. Maybe that place was a chop shop and Tommy works for them.

"What are we looking for?" Adam's seen _Gone in Sixty Seconds_. People steal cars to order sometimes.

"You ask a lot of questions," Tommy says, but he says it more like he thinks Adams amusing than like he's really pissed.

"Only two," Adam feels compelled to point out.

Tommy laughs and speeds up again, heading toward the far side of the lot. Adam takes a deep breath and keeps up with him, so they're side-by-side when they round a corner and end up in a three-sided dead space about six by three feet, next to a sign that says, Employee Parking Only.

Adam doesn't see a single thing that Tommy might look triumphant about. Unless― Maybe Tommy wants to make out again. No one could see them here. Adam would do it. He might even let Tommy touch his dick. Before he can say anything, though, Tommy pulls a baggie out of his pocket.

"I'll save you asking," he says. "We're gonna smoke up."

Adam's not a total square. He's been to parties, and drunk wine with dinner sometimes on special occasions, and, unlike Bobby Preston's parents, who sent him to boarding school when he smoked pot in his dad's Mercedes, Adam's pretty sure his mom and dad wouldn't do much more than frown disapprovingly if they caught him smoking weed. But he's still never done it. As far as he knows none of his friends have done it. Except, obviously, Tommy, who he guesses counts as his friend again.

Adam says, "We are?" and hopes that sounds less stupid to Tommy than it does to him.

"Sit down," Tommy says.

There's nothing to sit on and the ground is filthy, so Adam sort of crouches against the wall. Tommy sits crosslegged on the asphalt in the protected corner where Adam had thought they might make out without being seen, and pulls a lighter and rolling papers out of his Sephora bag.

"A little dirt's not gonna hurt you." Tommy smacks the ground next to his hip. Adam sits before he's even decided that he's going to. Tommy rolls in silence, and Adam can't think of anything to say, so they just listen to the chirps of car alarms and the revving of engines headed up the ramps, Adam's eyes on Tommy's fingers. He seems like he knows what he's doing. Not like James Franco or whatever, but this is not his first time.

"Does your dealer work at that car place?" Adam asks while Tommy's licking the rolling paper to seal the joint.

"He's not my dealer," Tommy says, putting air quotes around the word with the lighter and the joint. "He's a buddy of mine. Graduated last year. He has a medical card."

Someone who's selling the pot he gets from a dispensary sounds like a dealer to Adam, but he doesn't say anything. Maybe he's not selling it. Maybe he just gives it to Tommy because he likes him. Or maybe Tommy gives him something else in return. Adam remembers the guy in the tight jeans at the mall, feels the same twist in his gut he'd felt watching Tommy blow kisses at him. He is so fucking pathetic. They've gotten off together once, and now he's all jealous.

Tommy lights up and takes a huge drag, then passes the joint to Adam. Remembering the choking disaster on Tommy's thirteenth birthday, Adam takes the tiniest inhale he can. He still coughs a little, but everyone coughs a little when they're smoking pot. At least in the movies.

"You don't have to smoke if you don't want to," Tommy says, holding out his hand for the joint.

He might have mentioned that before, but going back over their conversation, Tommy hadn't actually said anything about Adam having to. He just assumed Adam would want to, leaving it up to Adam to correct that assumption.

Adam doesn't hand the joint back, though. Instead, he takes a little bit bigger hit, trying to pull the smoke into his mouth first and then breathe it in so he can do it slowly.

"Or," Tommy says, smiling slyly up at Adam from under the fall of his bangs, "you can totally cave to peer pressure."

Adam lets him take the joint, and leaves his hand in the air, middle finger extended.

"Any time, baby boy. Any time." Tommy takes a huge hit, but looks at Adam and ends up doubled up laughing and coughing.

"What?" Adam says when Tommy seems to be breathing again.

"Oh my fucking god your face." Tommy takes another hit and hands the joint back. Still holding his breath, he croaks, "Classic."

Adam isn't sure he wants to know classic what, but he can guess _surprise_ wouldn't be too far off. He wants to say something back that will put the same look on Tommy's face, but he can't imagine what that would be. Instead he takes another hit, and then another slightly larger one when that one doesn't make his chest seize up.

"How's it feel to lose your virginity?" Tommy asks while Adam's inhaling.

And fuck his chest seizing, Adam's whole body seizes up.

"This is your first time, isn't it?"

Adam's heart starts beating again with a thump that nearly knocks him on his face.

Tommy plucks the joint from Adam's numb fingers and watches him while he relights it and drags deep. Adam stares back, eyes on Tommy's lip ring, the way it touches the joint as he purses his lips to inhale. He thinks about the lipstick in Tommy's bag, and how it would stain the paper, and Adam would be able to see if its base is red or purple or true blue-black.

"They say you don't get high your first time," Tommy says, breaking Adam's trance. "But I got soooooo fucking high."

"I don't know if I'm feeling it," Adam answers. He isn't hungry, and nothing seems very funny, and Tommy's voice doesn't sound weird except for how _so_ was really really long, but Adam's pretty sure Tommy did that, not his ears.

"You haven't smoked very much," Tommy says. "You should have some more."

"You have to give it to me," Adam says, because Tommy's still got the joint clamped between the fingers of the hand resting on his far knee. Adam would have to lean over him to get it.

Adam's pretty sure he shouldn't lean over him right now.

"I can give it to you," Tommy says, and giggles a little. But he doesn't hand Adam the joint.

"Give it to me, then," Adam says after thirty seconds or so of watching Tommy's hand and seeing it not move.

Tommy grins and hands it over, his fingers brushing Adam's deliberately. Adam thinks about Tommy's fingers brushing his dick and wonders if that might happen again. He hopes so, but Tommy isn't really giving him any clues and Adam hasn't got the first idea how to ask.

"You have to put it in your mouth and suck," Tommy says, and Adam realizes he's just staring at his fingers where Tommy touched them. Tommy's holding out the lighter, thumb over the wheel, and Adam pulls himself together, putting the joint to his lips and leaning into the flame when Tommy sparks it.

He doesn't choke, or even cough, somehow figured out how to smoke between the last hit and this one, and he leans back against the wall, tipping his head up and looking at the ceiling. Someone's sprayed an 8 on it in lime-green paint.

"Dude," Adam says, and he's going to ask Tommy why someone would do that, but he hears heels echoing through the parking lot, click, click, click, getting faster, getting closer. "Fuck, fuck!" he whispers, grabbing Tommy's arm. "Someone's coming!"

Tommy doesn't panic though, he laughs, hunched up over his knees, wheezing into his fist. There's a scrape, and a chirp, and then the heels stop, a door slams and an engine starts.

"Fucking _Bowfinger_ ,” Tommy gasps, still laughing, clutching Adam's arm back, so they look like they're trying to save the other one from falling off a cliff or something. Adam has no idea what Tommy's talking about.

"Fucking dog in fucking shoes."

Adam's still lost, but Tommy's laugh is infectious, and now he's laughing too.

"Man, you are _baked_ ," Tommy says, yanking on Adam's arm and headbutting his shoulder.

"You're the one talking about dogs in shoes," Adam points out. Totally reasonably.

"You cannot tell me you haven't seen _Bowfinger_. Steve Martin and Eddie Murphy."

"Oh, yeah," Adam says. He's never even heard of it. He's totally seen _LA Story_ , and _Beverly Hills Cop_ , though. And there's a video store around the corner from Danielle's house and she totally thinks Steve is hot with his white hair, so she'd probably let him choose it without asking any questions if he lets her think he owes her one for something.

"Let's _go_ ," Tommy says. "It smells like fucking gas in here."

There is so much Adam could say to that, but it seems like way too much trouble, so he just laughs again and lets Tommy haul him to his feet.

Instead of leading him back the way they came, Tommy tugs Adam by the hem of his shirt in the other direction, and they come out across the street from the park. "Need a fucking soda," Tommy says, and looking both ways, he darts out into traffic.

Adam freezes―he really doesn't want to die today, and his parents would _kill_ him―but the cars are all going slow trying to find parking, and a woman in a station wagon with two carseats in the back glares at Tommy's back and waves Adam on.

"No fucking respect for people who don't have fucking cars," Tommy complains when Adam catches up to him. "You supposed to drive from the mall to the park?"

"I think you're supposed to use the crosswalk," Adam says, but Tommy's off again at a trot, leaving Adam to jog to catch up.

Adam's never been to Pan Pacific on a Saturday, and it's kind of crazy. All the picnic tables seem to be full, and there's a crowd of people playing baseball and a group of kids who seem to be playing tag, and where the fuck is Tommy going? Adam figured they'd head for one of the buildings, maybe one of them is a snack bar or something, but Tommy's going the other way, toward a mixed-generation crowd, maybe some kind of family reunion, barbecuing under a tree. Adam hangs back, unsure, not really wanting to meet people he doesn't know while he reeks of pot. But then Tommy's gone, and Adam's left on the path, standing in one spot and spinning, looking around like an idiot.

Until there Tommy is, on the other side of the crowd now, heading up a hill, a can of Coke in the hand not holding his bag of makeup. Adam spots an open cooler under the tree, none of the family paying attention to it. Tommy just fucking _stole_ a can of soda from a family in the park. Adam should be mad. He is mad, but he's hella impressed, too. That fucking takes nerves of steel. He could never do it.

By the time Adam catches up to Tommy, he's found a patch of shade away from most of the crowd and is lying on his back, head pillowed on one elbow, Coke can to his lips. He looks gorgeous and dangerous, makeup starting to smear around his eyes, studded belt sticking out from under the hem of his tee, boots scuffed and worn and too-big looking on his feet. For a moment, Adam hates him with a frightening ferocity, hates how he can lie there without caring what anyone thinks, without being scared, no doubts, and Adam wants to fall on him, hold him down, arms pinned, legs trapped between Adam's thighs, _explain_ to him that that's not how the world works. That there are _rules_.

And then Tommy looks up at him and grins, wild and happy, and he's six years old again, just found out he can go to day camp in the park with Adam in August instead of going to a babysitter with his cousin, and it's like the whole world is his, and Adam just wants to kiss him.

He settles on saying, "What the fuck?" and flopping down in the grass next to Tommy's bag, figuring he's less likely to try to do something stupid like hold his hand if there's something in the way.

"They'll never fucking miss it." Tommy holds out the Coke, dripping condensation on Adam's chest. The drops are cold, and spread out on his shirt, sticking the cotton to his skin and sending goosebumps pricking up the back of his neck. He doesn't want it, but his mouth is really dry, so he takes it and gulps some down.

"If you close your eyes and listen," Tommy says, taking the can back when Adam holds it out to him, "you can hear all the different sounds in layers, like the instruments in an orchestra."

Adam closes his eyes, but just hears noise.

"The traffic," Tommy says. "The people talking. The sound of the bat and the ball slapping into the gloves. The dogs barking. Just listen."

Adam listens. And Tommy's right. It's like music if you let it be.

When Adam opens his eyes again, seven loud cheers from the baseball diamond later, Tommy's rolled onto his stomach and is propped up on his forearms staring at Adam's face.

"Um," Adam says, his heart pounding.

"I didn't know if you were sleeping." With his teeth,Tommy twists his lip ring so the ball is hidden in his mouth, and then back again so it's resting against his lip, and then repeats the motion. It's really really mesmerizing.

"Um," Adam says again. "No." He's still staring at Tommy's mouth, and Tommy's still staring at his― He doesn't know exactly what, because he can't look away from Tommy's lips to see quite where his eyes are.

"I'm kind of housesitting for my uncle," Tommy says. "We could go over there if you want."

"Yeah," Adam says. "Yeah. Okay." Housesitting means no one is home. And the way Tommy's staring at him― Adam feels a grin start in his chest, bubble up 'til it hits his cheeks.

"Okay," Tommy echoes. "Yeah." He's smiling too as he stands and reaches out a hand to Adam.

They have to get the bus to Van Nuys, and then walk, and by the time they get to a low, pale stucco house, the sun is almost gone. Instead of heading for the door, Tommy angles across the front lawn to a gate at the side of the house.

"Where are we going?" Adam asks. He was looking forward to sitting down somewhere comfortable.

"Wanna show you something," Tommy says, fiddling with the latch, opening the gate just wide enough for them to squeeze through.

And Adam can see why. The grass and weeds growing alongside the house are waist high and the ground is littered with rocks ranging from fist-sized to head-sized. The gate can only open eighteen inches or so. Picking their way to the back in the dark is perilous. "We couldn't have gone through the house?" Adam asks.

"Just, come on. Don't be a baby."

When they get to the back of the house it's much brighter; a security light on the corner of the roof angles down to light up a small patio with a barbecue, two chairs and a table, and an old Cadillac that's seen better days. Adam's not sure what he's supposed to be looking at, but Tommy heads right for the car. "C'mon," he says, beckoning Adam with a flap of his hand as he opens the driver's door.

Neither of them are old enough to drive, and Adam can't see a gate big enough for a Beetle, never mind a Cadillac, so he doesn't think they could get out of the yard anyway, and it seems like that was an awfully long bus ride to look at a car. He's about to ask again what they're doing out here, but Tommy reaches around him and flips the seat forward, pushing him into the back, climbing in after him and taking the baggie and zigzags out of his pocket.

Adam doesn't want to be stoned when he gets home, but most of his buzz has worn off, and Tommy's really fucking hard to say no to. It's not so much that Adam likes being friends with him again and doesn't want to piss him off―Tommy doesn't really seem to be like that―it's more that Tommy makes everything thrilling. Makes things prickle under Adam's skin, and he doesn't know what to do with it except follow along.

Tommy makes quick work of rolling another joint. Giving Adam's face a quizzical look and not seeing a no there, he places it between Adam’s lips. His fingers brush against Adam’s cheek when he's lighting it, and despite the way Tommy was looking at him in the park, Adam isn't sure if it's an accident or not.

Smoking for a few minutes in silence, Adam squints through the haze at Tommy, trying to figure out what he wants, and then when Tommy arches an eyebrow at him he shakily gestures with the spliff in Tommy’s direction. Tommy takes it and inhales deeply before leaning into the front seat and stubbing it out in the ashtray.

Everything feels like it's spinning, and Adam leans back, letting his eyes drift shut, just for a minute. He doesn't even make it that long, because next thing he knows, Tommy's got his fingers sliding along Adam's hipbone into the waist of his jeans.

Tommy?” Adam's eyes fly open.

Tommy just grins at him, not moving his fingers. Instead he lays the flat of his hand on Adam’s stomach, half under his t-shirt, half under his jeans, watching Adam's face carefully, clearly pleased with himself.

Adam wants to be chill, act like he hasn't been hoping this would happen all day, like this isn't any big deal that they're doing this again, but he can feel his breathing quickening and his hips rising a little to meet the questing fingers. Pot's supposed to slow you down, but Adam's brain is flying, spinning― _be cool, be cool,_ and _oh my god, is this gonna mean we're boyfriends? what is he doing, fuck fuck fuck_ ―and this shouldn't be harder than the first time, but somehow it is.

While Adam's distracted, Tommy’s other hand moves to his fly, and before Adam can even be sure how he got there, Tommy's fingers close around his cock. The grin Tommy gives him when he gasps is feral. And really fucking hot. Adam tries to breathe again and it comes out all thready sounding.

Licking his lips, Tommy pushes up Adam's shirt, and it's all Adam can do not to ask out loud if Tommy's gonna blow him, but Tommy's hand just keeps stroking Adam's dick, and when he leans in, it's to fasten his lips around Adam's nipple. Adam hadn't thought that sensation could get any better than it was the first time in Tommy’s bed, but high it's like his nipple is actually part of his fucking dick. No amount of embarrassment could stop the sound he makes when Tommy uses his teeth.

Please…” Adam begs as Tommy pushes his shirt up higher, nips at the skin under his collar bone, making him whimper again. “Please.”

Please what?” Tommy slows down his hand movements to a near standstill and stops all the kissing and biting. He clearly gets off on making Adam ask for what he wants. Adam's not sure how he feels about that.

Wanting to make Tommy feel the way he's feeling, Adam grabs his face and drags him forward to fall against his chest. He tries to kiss him but Tommy eludes his lips, kissing his jaw instead. Trying again to capture his mouth, Adam only gets Tommy’s lips brushing his cheek. Horny, stoned, and getting pissed off, Adam tightens his hold on Tommy's face. “If you don’t kiss me I’m gonna fucking kill you.”

Tommy starts laughing and can't stop. Adam's about to push him off and just leave―he doesn't have to put up with this shit―but Tommy's lips are all pouched out where he's trying to hold in the giggles, and Adam has to have them. While Tommy's distracted, Adam pulls him close and sucks his lower lip into his mouth.

Like he flipped a switch, Tommy stops laughing and starts moaning. Both hands on Adam’s chest, he's pushing him sideways in an effort to get him lying on the back seat. Adam wants Tommy underneath him, but he hasn't got the balance to resist. Then Tommy tries to get up onto his knees and falls onto the floor. Now they're both giggling.

Fuck man, I’m totally mashed.”

Laughing loosened the knot in Adam's chest, and he says, “Get up here. I have a cure for that,” which is a blatant lie, because all the making out has done for him is make him feel more baked.

Tommy starts to move back up onto the seat and then stops, his face inches from where Adam's dick pokes out of his jeans.

"Oh," Adam says.

"Oh," Tommy echoes, and suddenly two pairs of hands are shoving the jeans out of the way and Tommy's sliding his lips over Adam’s length, pushing at Adam's leg, though there's nowhere for it to go.

Dude. We’re in a car here. Not a lot of room,” Adam says, amazed at how steady his voice sounds.

"Mmmpf," Tommy murmurs, opening his mouth around Adam's cock and sucking on the head.

And yeah. Adam's not so much with the steady anymore.

With one leg folded up against the car door and the other crooked at an awkward angle in the footwell, Adam is far from comfortable, but his dick is in a boy's mouth―in _Tommy's_ mouth―and no amount of fantasizing about the perfect romantic cock-sucking interlude comes even close to what it feels like to be actually getting his dick wet.

He has no idea what to do with his hands, since it seems rude to grab Tommy's hair like he wants to, so Adam grips the seat and the bunched-up fabric of his jeans and tries desperately to keep still. He can see Tommy jacking the base of his cock, though Tommy's hair is blocking the view of where his mouth wraps around the head. Scary and thrilling and amazing, when Tommy pulls up to lick the tip of Adam's dick, Adam can feel his lip ring catching the ridge. He's not sure it should feel as good as it does.

"I― You―" he says, his hand gripping Tommy's hair despite his best efforts. Maybe it's not as rude as he thought, though, because Tommy moans and shoves like half Adam's dick in his mouth, sucking hard and moaning again so it's all hot and wet and kind of vibrating in this amazing way. Adam's orgasm catches both of them by surprise.

Tommy coughs and splutters, dribbling jizz all down Adam's cock to soak into his boxers, and Adam vows to give some kind of warning next time. Assuming there is a next time. Maybe if you come in a guy's mouth that's a deal breaker.

"Sorry," he says, trying to sound earnest but mostly sounding dazed.

"S'okay." Tommy pats his hip. "Just took me by surprise. I'm cool with swallowing though. It's not like you have the clap, right?"

Adam has absolutely no idea what to say to that. He's pretty sure, "You're the first person I ever even _kissed_ how the hell would I have the clap?" is the wrong thing, though, so fortunately when he opens his mouth nothing more than a gurgle comes out.

"I don't either," Tommy says. "The school nurse will test you and shit. It, like, got in the papers because the parents had a fit, but it has private funding or whatever. So."

Adam tries to imagine a clap clinic at his high school. No fucking way. "Okay?" he says. Maybe the pot was stronger than he thought, and he's imagining this whole conversation.

"You don't have to blow me, though," Tommy says. "You can just―" he makes the universal sign for jacking off.

Kissing, Adam thinks. Kissing would make all the talking stop. He pulls Tommy up off the floor and onto his chest.

They end up with Adam half on his back and only half on the seat and Tommy half on top of him and half holding him up, a position which is only tenable if they both stay still. This time it's Adam who ends up on the floor.

Ow! Fuck!” He hits his hip on the foot well divider and his right leg, tangled in his jeans, twists under him.

Tommy laughs so hard he hits his head on the arm rest. “Shit! Ow.” But he still can't stop laughing.

Shut up. It’s not funny.”

Tommy laughs harder.

This is ridiculous. But Tommy does seem to be laughing at the situation and not at Adam. Which is something. “Will you help me out here?” Adam tries not to sound like he's sulking.

Trying to look serious and failing spectacularly, Tommy manages to sit up and tug Adam’s pants off the leg that's still half on the seat. This enables Adam to sit up and finish the job. Tommy looks down at him where he's crumpled on the floor of the car, fully naked now. “Damn,” he says, under his breath. He says it like he thinks Adam's sexy.

Not sure what to do with that, Adam tugs at Tommy’s jeans, trying to pull them all the way off while Tommy divests himself of his shirt.

When they're both naked Adam stops to wonder what the hell they're doing in the back of Tommy's uncle's vintage Cadillac without their fucking clothes on, but then Tommy stops laughing and leans in to kiss him again, and Adam really couldn't care less if there are more practical places they could be.

Until, trying to get a better angle to kiss Tommy and get a hand on his dick, he brings his kneecap down on the button fly of his discarded jeans. He almost bites Tommy's tongue off.

Dude, what the fuck!”

Sorry. Buttons, knee, ow. It was bad.”

Let me see.”

Are you kidding? _I_ can’t even see. It’s dark, I’m stuck in the foot well of a car―"

At least you got to come already.” Tommy's jacking his own dick, slow and insolent, his pierced eyebrow raised at Adam.

"It's so not my fault. You brought me out here. Doesn't your uncle have a couch or something?"

"C'mon up here. I can sit on your lap and you can get me off."

Adam does as he's told, but only because the seat is really much more comfortable than the floor.

He's not sure what he was picturing when Tommy said "sit on your lap", but somehow it wasn't Tommy kneeling either side of his hips, looming over him with his dick hard and _right there_ against Adam's stomach. Still getting used to that, Adam's also not prepared for Tommy to sit, and Adam has to shove his thighs together at the last second so Tommy doesn't just sink down between them.

"Gonna touch me?" Tommy asks, maybe―just maybe―a little bit breathless and hopeful.

Adam's fucking hopeful anyway. He’s spent a lot of time in the last few weeks thinking about how Tommy’s dick looked in his hand, and he wants to see it again. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah." It still takes him a second to move, though. To get his hands up, one on Tommy's hip and the other wrapping around his dick, too hard, then too loose, then hopefully close to just right.

"Fucking three bears," he mutters, and god, was that out loud?

But, "What?" Tommy asks, and then, "Unngh," as Adam rubs his thumb across the slick on Tommy's cockhead, so probably he didn't hear.

"Good?" Adam asks, now that he's pretty confident the answer is yes.

"Yes it's fucking―"

Adam jerks faster, harder, stuck staring at the shine on his thumb and Tommy's dick reflecting the spotlight on the back porch. Not that the pizza night left him in any doubt, but, oh, fuck yeah, Adam really fucking loves dick.

"Don't fucking stop," Tommy gasps when Adam slows down just long enough to cup Tommy's balls with his other hand.

Tommy's high-pitched grunt when he squeezes brings Adam's eyes to his face, and damn, that's almost better than watching his dick. His eyes are closed, head tipped back just enough so his throat is long and tempting, glistening with sweat, and Adam wants to bite his lip ring, give him a whole necklace of hickeys, bury his nose in the hollow between his collar bones, but he just stares, rapt, wondering how the fuck he got so lucky.

He's so busy watching Tommy’s face that Tommy’s orgasm comes out of nowhere. Next time, though―god there better be a next time―he's going to know that the twitch of Tommy's jaw, the jerk in his shoulder, means he's about to come. Adam wonders if he looks like that when he's coming. Wonders how many other guys know that's what Tommy looks like.

He doesn't say, _You're fucking beautiful when you come_ , thank fuck, managing instead to put a tease in his voice and ask, “You didn’t get any on the seat did you?”

Tommy chuckles without opening his eyes. “You can lick it up if I did.”

Yeah, not licking upholstery, but Adam is willing to lick the patch near the edge of Tommy’s left nipple, so he does. Then, to forestall any more comments about his come-tasting habits, he says, “If you think I’m putting my tongue anywhere near this seat you are so fucking high.”

"Not that high." Tommy grabs his shirt and wipes off the rest of his chest, checking the seat either side for spills.

Adam figures he, at least, still is pretty high, because he's a little disappointed that he didn't get to lick any more of it. Even though it's not exactly ice-cream flavored.

"Gonna smoke the rest of this with me?" Tommy asks, arching back alarmingly to grab the joint out of the ashtray between the front seats.

Snatching at Tommy's waist so he doesn't fall, Adam doesn't answer, but when Tommy comes back up again he puts the roach between Adam's lips anyway. The lighter is apparently on the back window shelf behind Adam's head, because Tommy's hand shoots out and the next thing Adam knows there's a flame flickering in front of his lips, Tommy's face looking wild on the other side of it. He inhales, lighting the spliff, and promptly hacks and chokes and nearly spits the thing at Tommy.

Tommy's hands fly to cover his crotch, making Adam acutely aware that they are still sitting in some guy's _car_ , completely _naked_. He just had sex in a car. With a boy. His bare ass is on the seats. "How is this my life?" Adam says, filters shot to hell by the pot, and the naked, and the sex.

"Somewhere in your youth or childhood, you must have done something good," Tommy says, and seriously? How the hell is he quoting _The Sound of Music_? _Why_ the hell is he quoting _The Sound of Music_?

"I'm pretty sure I'm still in my youth," Adam retorts, because he's ignoring the quoting thing, in case it's Tommy making fun of the fact that he's a theater geek.

"And you definitely did something good," Tommy says, leering, and leaning forward to take a drag from the joint Adam's pinching loosely between his fingers.

It feels like Tommy's inhaling his skin, all the way up his hand and his arm, into his shoulder. "Fuck," he says. Tommy lifts that eyebrow ring again before cupping Adam's cheeks and pulling him close enough to press their lips together, exhaling his lungful of smoke into Adam's mouth.

The hands on his face were just enough warning that Adam manages not to choke again, though if this is supposed to be a kiss, it's not exactly the best ever.

"Okay, now I'm high," Tommy says, mouth moving against Adam's. Then, resting his forehead on Adam's shoulder, "We're really naked."

"In your uncle's car," Adam reminds him.

"We should get dressed."

Adam hates to agree, but he really agrees. It's sticky and sweaty and weird now that they're not really doing anything anymore. "Yeah," he says.

Getting dressed in the back of a Cadillac is an adventure, and not one Adam really wants to repeat. They both have comestains on various pieces of clothing, Adam nearly gives Tommy a black eye with his elbow, and they both hit themselves at least twice on the windows or each other. Adam's parents have date night every other Friday, and they like Tommy―or at least they did before, he's not sure what they'd think of his piercings and his attitude―so probably they would be okay with Adam having him for a sleep over. He's totally going to figure out if Tommy would think that was the lamest thing ever, and then invite him. Because he's pretty sure they could have a lot more fun on a queen bed.

"I've gotta get home," Tommy says, once they're both dressed again.

"I thought you were housesitting for your uncle?"

Tommy busies himself getting the door open―not that easy from the back seat of a two-door car.

"Tommy?"

As he's climbing out, Tommy mutters, "Nah, he's just at poker tonight."

It sounds like Tommy just said they _broke in_ to his uncle's yard to have sex in his car while he was out, and could come home at any moment. Adam wonders briefly if he's going to be sick. Then he remembers that pot is an anti-nausea drug, so he probably won't. Plus, they didn't get caught. But if he keeps sitting here, they might. He gets out of the car so quickly he's not even sure how he does it.

"Are you kidding?" he asks, because Tommy could totally be kidding.

"Didn't think you'd come otherwise," Tommy says, still not looking at him.

"You were right." Righteous anger is filling Adam's chest, but he tries to keep a lid on it.

"And you had fun, so. And I had fun." Tommy looks at him then, a quick flick of his eyes, and a quirk at the edge of his mouth. "Totally worth it."

Adam did have fun. But fucking hell. "C'mon," he says. "Let's get out of here."

They split up at the corner, no kiss goodbye, just an awkward bro-hug, and a murmured "text me" from Tommy who heads east to catch his bus home, while Adam turns south to get the bus into town where his Dad promised to pick him up if he called before 11:30. It's only 9:15, so Adam has a chance to air out a little. His dad for sure knows what pot smells like, but not necessarily in a way that has him being okay with his fifteen-year-old kid smoking it. Though Adam's pretty sure he'd be more okay about that than about his son letting a boy suck his dick in essentially a stolen car.

Maybe he shouldn't invite Tommy over. Tommy is just the kind of trouble his parents are always trying to keep Adam out of. He probably shouldn't see Tommy again at all, but Adam's pretty sure it's a little bit late for that.  


* * *

  
School is not exactly Adam's favorite thing ever, but he loves drama class. Even when it runs late and he has to jog to get to World Studies and the hall monitor, Eldon, calls, "Fly little fairy, flyyyy," at him. At least Adam knows for sure now that he _is_ a fairy. He's not sure why that would make it sting less, but it does. Maybe because, yeah, assholes are still assholes, but he's been kissed and had a hand job _and_ a blow job, and he might get more of any of those things, or even something else, soon. He texted Tommy two days after the car thing―Danielle told him once, in like seventh grade, that she was never going to look too eager because boys don't like that, and Adam thought it was sexist and stupid at the time, but he decided why take a risk―and this time Tommy texted him back a few hours later, and okay, he only said, "hey, sup," and then it was three more days before he replied to Adam's "nothing much. homework. wanna do smthg sat?" and when he did it was only to say, "bzy. soon tho," but he didn't ignore Adam altogether, which was an improvement on after the first time they fooled around.

Drama class is awesome even when his teacher picks the stupidest fall musical Adam's ever seen. It's called _Young Dracula_ , and he thought it might be pretty cool until he read the script. And the score. Oh my god, the score. He thinks the writers might have been going for a Rocky Horror thing but with vampires instead of Frankenstein, but they missed every single mark. On the plus side, Adam got one of the leads again, even though he's only a sophomore. He gets to play Dracula himself, which, even though he's lame and campy―not really in a fun way―he's at least better than any of the stupid kids who turn up at Dracula's house in the middle of their vacation.  

Also on the plus side―though this would be a plus even if they were doing a better show―the new drama teacher's husband is a studio make-up artist, and she announced today that he's coming in to teach them some tricks of the trade. Adam's learned some stuff at theater camp and in the community theater shows he's done, but more just from picking it up. No one's actually _taught_ him before. He can make his eyes pop and his lips shine, but he can't change the shape of his face. He'd love to be able to change the shape of his face.

Tuesday, Mrs. Mooreland tells them her husband can't come this Thursday because the film he's working on is doing reshoots, but he will almost definitely come next Friday. Adam tries not to look too disappointed. It's difficult when the next thing she does is launch into "I'm Just an Old Bat Now”, Adam's big solo number, and the worst song ever written. Ever.

"Shut up, at least you have a solo," Danielle hisses when she sees his face. Danielle is playing a maid and has to wear a really short skirt and fishnets and carry a feather duster, so Adam doesn't glare at her even though he really wants to.

 

Adam and Danielle aren’t nerdy enough that they have to eat lunch at the loser's table, but they are relegated to the unpopular side of the quad. Adam doesn't mind because that's the side with trees, and if he sits in the sun too much, his freckles get even worse. On Wednesday he and Danielle are sitting on the bench under the half-dead oak, arguing over whether Adam needs another can of Coke before class, when his phone buzzes in his pocket.

"I thought I was the only one who texted you," Danielle says, reaching for his phone like he might hand it to her before he even looks to see who it's from.

Not that looking helps. Unknown number, Los Angeles area code.

"Lemme seeeeee,” she wheedles.

"How bout we let _me_ see first, since it's my phone," Adam says, disappointed that it isn't Tommy.

Except it is. "this is tommy. borrowd fone. grounded and mom took mine. 2 wks w good behavior. don't 4get me."

It's not that Adam doesn't get it, like, what the words mean, but it still somehow makes no sense.

"What?" Danielle says, nearly bouncing with impatience and making little grabby fingers in his direction.

"Nothing." Adam knows she won't buy it, and he shouldn't even say it because it will just make her more curious and then she won't buy whatever explanation he tries to give that isn't _It's the guy I used to be friends with who I'm now kind of having sex with, who I haven't told you about yet._ He can't help it though; it just pops out of his mouth.

"Nothing, my ass. Gimme."

"You aren't the boss of me, you know." Apparently his masturbatory habits aren't the only way Adam's regressing lately.

"I am too and you know it. Gimme the phone." She doesn't wait for him to argue further, just snatches it out of his hand.

"Who the fuck is Tommy?"

"I don't know?" Adam tries. "Wrong number?"

"You are _such_ a bad liar." Danielle pokes him hard in the ribs. "Are you― Oh my god. Oh my god, Adam, do you have a," Danielle's voice drops to a whisper, "boyfriend?"

"No," Adam says. "No!" He's almost definitely sure he doesn't have a boyfriend.  And why would Danielle even think that? He's never said―

"Adam Mitchel Lambert, _how could you not tell me?_ " Danielle stares, her mouth and eyes open so wide she looks like a freaky animation of herself.  

"He's just this guy. We were, like, best friends in elementary, and we just started hanging out again the last few weeks." Adam waves a hand at her. "It's nothing. Stop looking at me like that."

"I'm not going to make you talk about this here at school, but I don't care how much homework Franklin gives you, you're coming over after, and we're going to _talk_."

Adam loves Danielle. But she is really damn persistent.

He can't really avoid her after school, since she only lives four blocks away from him and they take the same bus. It's not worth waiting for the late one; she'll only call and bother him at home which might involve his parents. He really doesn't want to involve his parents. Not that they aren't cool and stuff. But he's heard stories about kids who thought their parents were cool. Plus, if they think Tommy's his boyfriend they probably definitely won't let him spend the night ever. Not that Tommy is exactly asking to spend the night, but it might happen and Adam doesn't want to fuck that up.

True to her word, Danielle just talks about Spanish class and the stupid song she has to sing in the musical until they get back to her house. Then, though, she doesn't even wait for him to put his bag down and get a drink before she's on him.

"Tommy," she says. "Start at the beginning. Leave nothing out."

That is so not happening. Adam would rather die than tell Danielle about getting naked in Tommy's bed, or even worse, in Tommy's uncle's car. She's stubborn, but when he wants to, Adam can out stubborn _anyone_. He puts his backpack on the table in the foyer and pointedly walks into the kitchen, gets a soda, and sits down at the breakfast bar before he starts with the Christmas he turned five.

"He moved in up the street and he had a KITT car, and he let me drive it before I even asked. Then his mom made me hot chocolate."

"A kit car? How old is he?"

"We were five. He might have been five and I might have been four. Like a _Knight Rider_ car. One of those Power Wheels things."

"I always wanted the Barbie one." Anyone else might sound like they could be distracted talking about Power Wheels or Barbies, but not Danielle.

"I always wanted the Corvette," Adam tries anyway.

"So the kid let you ride his car. And now you're gay?"

Persistent and really really not subtle. Adam opens his mouth and closes it again. Not like a fish or anything, just, what the hell is he supposed to say to that? "Fine." He might as well tell her. "I'm gay."

"I―"

"But it has nothing to do with Tommy letting me drive his car."

"Oh my god, duh, Adam. Obviously." Danielle leans over their knees to squeeze him in one of the choke holds she calls a hug. "What's he letting you ride now, though?"

Blushing would be much less horrible if Adam couldn't feel it happening.

"I knew it! Every detail. You promised."

It can be hard to tell with Danielle if she believes herself when she comes out with shit like that, but either way, Adam definitely did not promise. Not even in some distant past conversation when any possibility of sex was completely hypothetical. He's almost positive.

"We went for pizza. We made out a couple times. No big deal." Biggest deal in the universe. Whatever. It's certainly a worse sin to kiss and tell than to do a little white lying to your best friend.

"What's he look like? Is he hot?" She's doing that bouncing thing again, only it's more worrying on her mom's spindly-legged little bar stools than on a huge wooden bench bolted to the ground.

"He's cute. I don't know. He has a lip ring."

Danielle's mouth drops open again. "Fuuck. That is so hot."

"But he's not my boyfriend." Adam wants to make this point now before she runs away on imagination and gossip.

"He's obviously into you, though.  Don't you like him?" She grabs his soda and takes a sip while Adam's distracted wondering what makes her think Tommy's into him. He's had his dick in Tommy's mouth and he can't tell if Tommy's into him.

"Why do you say that?"

"Well he totally has your number memorized if he could text you with his phone taken away, and he was like, 'Don't forget me,' and stuff."

That Tommy must have memorized his number never even occurred to Adam. He doesn't have Tommy's number memorized―it's just in his phone. And he's really into Tommy, something he has started admitting to himself, if not to Danielle. The jerking off could have just been excitement about finally getting some action, but Adam's pretty sure the thinking about him all the time means it's more―since it's not even usually about kissing him or his dick, but like, wondering if he wants to get pizza again, or if he might show up next time Adam asks him to go see a movie. Then there are the little hearts he keeps drawing on his notebooks like he's the little sister in a Disney movie or whatever.

Adam scoffs, and then almost makes the mistake of saying, "He forgets about me all the time,"―which would make him sound bitter and desperate, which is not how Danielle needs to see him―but at the last second subs in, "He was just fucking around."

"Uh huh. Exactly. So which one of you does the fucking?"

Even when Adam was waking up every morning with sticky sheets, he never popped wood in his best friend's kitchen.

There's a first time for everything.

By dint of a political rant about gender stereotyping cribbed mostly from the guy his dad was listening to on NPR in the car last time they went to San Diego, Adam manages to derail Danielle and get his boner to go down, and he escapes home to do his homework―Franklin gave them two chapters and threatened them with a pop quiz, so it's not an empty excuse―without having to talk about Tommy again. Danielle does whisper, "He totally likes you," in his ear as she's hugging him goodbye, but he ignores her, since she didn't even know Tommy existed until lunch time.  


* * *

  
Even though they have to wait like a whole extra week in the end, it's worth it, because Mr. Moorland's make-up tutorial is even better than Adam had hoped for. He asks for a volunteer to model for him, and Adam's hand goes up so fast he nearly dislocates his shoulder. He gives Adam hollow cheeks and hooded brows, then wipes it all off and talks Adam through doing it again while everyone else takes notes. He uses Elise to model aging makeup, and does a zombie face on Brian, who's wearing a White Zombies t-shirt. Adam already can't wait to get home and experiment and then Mr. Moorland says, "Shall we do a stage look for Dracula here?"

Chelsea Hawkins mutters something about that not being fair, but she complains about everything and Adam doesn't even care what she thinks. He does try to keep the smirk off his face when he settles back in the makeup chair, though.

To Adam's surprise, the first thing Moorland pulls out of his bag is a can of hairspray. But then, "Black hair first," he says. Adam closes his eyes against the spray.

Mr. Moorland pauses after spraying Adam's head to talk about how even a change in hair color can change a person's whole look. Adam can't stop staring at himself in the mirror. Moorland's not fucking kidding. Adam already looks a hundred times more like Dracula, but he also looks older, less like a little kid and more like the young man his mom keeps saying he's turning into. Though―Adam narrows his eyes at himself in the mirror―she might have to take off the 'nice' she usually tacks on to the beginning of the phrase.

Adam notices the hush a moment before Mr. Moorland says his name, clearly for the second time. Everyone laughs when Adam just looks at him quizzically.

"That's exactly my point," Mr. Moorland says. "With good makeup, the actor doesn't even recognize himself."

It takes Adam three days to decide he's going to actually dye his hair. Or to admit that he decided he was going to dye his hair the second he opened his eyes and saw himself in the mirror. It takes another two to buy the dye and then he has to wait 'til Saturday to get Danielle to dye it for him. If he does it himself he's going to end up with blue splotches on his face and ginger streaks at the back. She argues that it will look ridiculous with his freckles and that his mother will kill him and that he'll have to shave his head when he decides he doesn't like it after the play is done, but he threatens to tell Billy Squire that she's had a crush on him since freshman year if she doesn't do it, and she seems to think the world will end if Billy finds out she likes him―Adam personally thinks Billy will ask her out, but he's not telling her that now―so she does it.

It's more shocking than he expected. With the spray, it was lighter along his hair line, and had blonder bits showing through, but now it's _black_ black. "Shiiiit," he says, peering at himself in Danielle's bathroom mirror.

"Yeah." Danielle combs her fingers through it, lifting it off his face. "Wow. Okay. It doesn't suck."

Ducking away from her primping, Adam grabs her hairdryer and plugs it in. She lets him start, but after about a minute is pushing him back down in the chair and taking over. Adam's pretty sure she's trying to rip his hair out by the roots, but she tells him he's being oversensitive and it's the hair dye not her, and doesn't listen. He's glad in the end when she manages to make him look like Elvis.

"The young, hot one," she adds when he mentions it. "But don't let it go to your head."

"Do I look like Dracula, though?" he asks.

Danielle gives him her cheekiest smile. "Hell yeah," she says.

 

In Adam's second scene on stage there's a moment when the lights flash and swoop crazily over the set and the audience, and as one goes past the left side of the third row he's pretty sure he sees Tommy sitting there, an older couple on one side of him, and three girls from the Mathletes team on the other. Before he can be sure, though, the spot is back in his face and he can't see the audience at all. For the first time since he was eleven, Adam's certain he's going to flub his note, but it comes out pitch perfect when he opens his mouth to sing. It can't be Tommy anyway, because Tommy never called him again after the text about being grounded, and Adam never mentioned he was in this show. And a guy isn't going to travel to the other side of Los Angeles to see a random high school musical.

He tries to look when the lights go down after his solo, but Jorge has his fat head between Adam and the relevant seat. It isn't until the final scene that the angle and lighting align so Adam can get another look at the guy slumped where he thought he saw Tommy. It's a good thing he's not singing at the time, because the guy lifts his head enough for Adam to see his eyes and his lip ring and the little finger-wiggle wave he gives Adam, and it's all Adam can do to keep the string of curses inside his head and focus on not letting his fangs drop out of his mouth. Tommy is in the theater. Alone. Unless he randomly knows three math nerds from Adam's school. The only explanation Adam can think of is that Tommy's here to see him.

Adam wants to punch him. He wants to kiss him. He really fucking wants to not get a boner on stage in front of half the school and their parents and grandparents. None of his wishes come true before the curtain drops.

Dracula's cape proves useful during the curtain call, and though Adam had practiced throwing it open with a flourish, he does the more traditional holding it across his lower face―and thus across his crotch―as he takes a bow.

Backstage is chaos with the cast and crew jumping around and screaming about how everything went so perfectly even though their final dress rehearsal had been kind of a disaster. People keep leaping on Adam and hugging him, which is not really helping with the boner situation. He finally escapes through the maze of the group dressing room and the prop room into the costume storage closet where the air is stuffy but he can at least be alone for a minute. He sinks down on the low tailor's bench the seamstress uses when she needs to pin hems, and presses his palms to his eyes, breathing slow and deep.

Feeling more like himself after a little break, but not yet in the mood for the screaming masses again, he hangs up his cape and ridiculous black shirt with the red ruffles―even though usually the costumes for shows in progress go in the dressing room―and is running his fingers through his lacquered-back hair when he hears the door open behind him. He's expecting Mrs. Moorland, or Phil, who's in charge of props, or maybe Danielle. He's not expecting Tommy.

"Stupid play, but you can really fucking sing," Tommy says, shutting the door and leaning on it.

After briefly weighing the pros and cons of "Hey," versus, "What the hell are you doing here?" Adam comes out with "What the hell, hey?" adding a spazzy hand-flap just to make it even more suave.

"You never write, you never call," Tommy says, shrugging and taking a few steps closer. "Besides. I love Dracula."

"I'm sorry," Adam says, heartfelt. No one who loves Dracula should be forced to sit through what Tommy just sat through.

Tommy snorts. "Yeah. Well. Seriously though, you were really good."

It seems like they're ignoring the half-a-dozen unanswered texts Adam sent Tommy the week after he was supposed to have gotten his phone back, or the fact that it's been over a month since Adam's heard from him at all. "Okay," Adam says. "Thanks."

"Made me want to blow you when you were singing that one song."

Adam cannot begin to imagine what song he sang that might inspire such a response, but Tommy's advancing on him again, and he's not sure he wants to know anyway. Before he can stop it, his stupid, cockblocking mouth opens and says, "You can't blow me in here."

"Sure I can," Tommy says, palming Adam's dick. "You're hard, the door's closed, nothing's stopping me."

He's right about that. Adam's right hand is pressing Tommy's to his crotch, and his left is grabbing at the clothes on the rack behind him. He's doing nothing to put Tommy off.

"Do I get a kiss hello?" Tommy says, going up on his tiptoes as he speaks like he knows the only answer is yes.

Adam kinda hates that he's not wrong, but his irritation doesn't keep his hand from curling around the back of Tommy's neck and pulling him the last half inch up to Adam's mouth. As soon as Adam starts to pull, Tommy pushes, one hand on Adam's shoulder and the other still on his dick. Surprised, Adam stumbles back, making hangers squeal in protest as he ends up ass to the wall, shoulders and head hunched forward, stopped by the rail.

"Ow!" he says as an errant pin stabs him in the neck.

For a second, Adam's sure Tommy's going to ignore how this really isn't working, the way he seems to ignore everything else he doesn't like, but before Adam can protest further, Tommy grabs him by his waistband and the sleeve of his undershirt and drags him around 90 degrees so he can push him against the bare eighteen inches of wall between two racks.

Adam wonders if for once he should listen to his gym teacher's advice and start working out. Yeah, Tommy has surprise on his side, but Adam must have five inches and forty pounds on him and Tommy's still throwing him around like it's nothing.

"Hey," Adam tries to say, but Tommy's tongue's back in his mouth and his hand is back on Adam's dick, and all that comes out is a muffled groan.

Adam can't breathe, with the air too hot and close, Tommy's mouth sealed over his, and Tommy's cheek crowding his nose, but there's nowhere to go with all Tommy's weight holding him against the wall. He finally gets a grip on Tommy's shoulders and starts to push him back, but Tommy goes down instead, and _damn_ , Adam has never really contemplated the literal meaning of that before.

As he stares down at Tommy's upturned face, Adam realizes that what he thought was a not-very-skillful handjob was actually Tommy opening his pants one-handed; they're already gaping, Adam's dick tenting the front of his briefs obscenely.

Speaking of obscene, Tommy kneeling on the dusty floor of the costume room, tugging at his lip ring with his teeth while he reaches for Adam's dick with both hands― If he doesn't get it in his mouth soon, Adam's going to shoot in his shorts. He tries to explain this, but it just comes out, "Fucking, fucking, _Tommy_ ," a garbled, desperate whisper. And thank god, because there are thumps and excited voices coming from the other side of the door now: Adam's classmates putting props away ready for tomorrow's show. They really, really should not be doing this. The door only locks with a key, and Adam doesn't have it, and they could get caught, or locked in, and oh, fuck, Tommy's got Adam's dick in his hands now, his mouth's open crazy wide, his tongue pointing out, and Adam cannot think of a single word in any language except, "Oh, fuck, yes."

The blowjob itself is anti-climactic, since Adam comes less than five seconds after Tommy closes his mouth around the head of Adam's dick, but the orgasm is totally amazing, so Adam can't even bring himself to feel embarrassed. He worries a little about the fact that he completely failed, _again_ , to give Tommy any warning before jizzing in his mouth, but Tommy must have taken the thunk of Adam's head against the wall, or maybe the stranglehold on his hair, as a clue, because he's wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, but there doesn't seem to be any jizz on Dracula's shiny black pants. Thank god.

"You just blew me in my costume," Adam says.

Tommy looks up at him like that is the stupidest thing he has ever heard. "Was the point," he says, pulling himself back to his feet with a grip on Adam's waist. "Though I was hoping you'd still be wearing the cape."

Adam laughs weakly, wondering if his fingers are going to stop tingling soon.

"And next time you should totally wear the fangs."

The words, 'next time,' make Adam grin like an idiot, so he wraps Tommy in a hug and snugs his leg against Tommy's erection in an effort to distract him. "I totally get to keep them," he confides when Tommy presses his face to Adam's neck, and Tommy bites him in answer, slow sink of teeth, a perfect counterpoint to the dirty grind of his cock against the muscle of Adam's thigh, and it feels so fucking good Adam can't tell if the little fireworks going off in his gut are leftovers from the orgasm he just had or previews of the next one.

Tommy's clinging to him, humping faster now, hot exhalations stinging the teethmarks he left on Adam's throat, and Adam gets his hands under Tommy's ass to hold him closer, help him get more pressure, thrusting his own hips forward to match Tommy's rhythm. He wants to suck him but there's no way he can stop him now, no way he can stop himself. Tommy's fingers curl around  Adam's shoulder blades, digging into the tender flesh there, and Tommy starts to shake, his breaths coming in high-pitched gasps, and he hooks one leg around Adam's as he shudders, coming in Adam's arms.

While Tommy goes completely limp, Adam feels charged, filled with electricity. He needs more―to taste, touch, feel, do _something_ besides stand here letting the wall hold him up. They're just a few feet from the tailor's bench, and Adam pushes, spins, pulls until they're turned around and he's sitting down, pawing at Tommy's fly, desperate to get to his dick.

'What?" Tommy asks, and Adam would explain that he can't get dust all over the knees of his pants―he has to wear them again tomorrow night and he doesn't want to have to get them cleaned―but he's too busy trying to get at the fucking enticing smell of sex and Tommy that's right in his face.

While his fingers fumble, Adam presses his nose to the crease of Tommy's groin where the denim is damp, breathing deep, exhaling so he can do it again, deeper this time, sticking out his tongue to taste.

There's a tiny voice in the back of his head telling him he's a freak, that he should not want to fucking suck the jizz out of someone's jeans, but he _does_ want to. Wants it all, and Tommy's not pulling away, isn't asking again what he's doing, has his fingers twisted in Adam's hair holding him close while he makes little helpless noises above him. Finally, fucking _finally_ Adam's fingers figure out what to do to get Tommy's dick out, and the smell is sharper, stronger, and Adam can taste Tommy's skin, and it's so much better.

The helpless noises turn pained as Adam nuzzles Tommy's dick up against his belly, lapping at the base just above his balls before fastening his lips around the head and sucking like Tommy's a straw in a Slurpee.

"Sorry," he mumbles when Tommy whimpers, except he's not, and he doesn't stop licking―the shaft, the smear of jizz just above the elastic he's holding out of the way against Tommy's stomach, the head again, the curls of hair trapping beads of come.

He feels crazy, not because he wants this, but because of how _much_ , and he's in the fucking costume room at his _school _and the door's not locked, and his classmates are right outside, and nothing short of a gun in his face would drag him away right now. He hasn't got the first clue how to give head, and Tommy _just_ came and isn't even hard, but he's staring down at Adam like Adam's maybe kind of amazing, and it's better than the way he smells or tastes or even feels. Adam never ever wants Tommy to stop looking at him like that. __

"You can't―" Tommy gasps, trying to tug Adam off when Adam gets an arm around his waist and tries to swallow his whole dick. And he's right: tears squirt from Adam's eyes, he starts to choke and then drool as he tries not to bite Tommy while he's choking, and it's all very bad. But Adam doesn't let go, just gets Tommy's dick out of his mouth so it's safe from teeth, and rests his cheek on Tommy's hip bone, hugging him close.

Once Adam's calmed down, Tommy's grip on his hair relaxes and he starts playing with the strands at the back of his neck. "You really like it when I come," he says wonderingly.

"Yeah," Adam says, uncertain, and then, "Yeah. It's― 'course I do." Because that's what they're doing here, right? Making each other come. The dating/not-dating, friends again/not-friends part Adam's still confused about, but he really really likes making Tommy come and likes it when Tommy makes him come, and Tommy keeps doing it so he must like it―

Unless.

"Don't you like it?" Adam asks, keeping his face hidden against Tommy's stomach, though if what they're doing makes Tommy uncomfortable, having his naked dick like two inches from Adam's mouth is maybe not ideal.

Tommy huffs a half-laugh, jostling Adam's head. "I like it. Just, you know. It's kind of messy?"

"I guess I kind of like it messy." Adam's never, like, fantasized about smearing come all over himself or walking around all day in his own jizz or anything, and unlike his little brother or some of the guys in his gym class, he's fond of showering every day, but he likes that Tommy's messy because of Adam and what they did together. And he does like how it tastes, even though he gets why people think it's gross.

"Okay," Tommy says, pulling Adam's head back so he's forced to look at him. "I like that you like it."

All graceful, the way he is and the way Adam wishes he could be, Tommy straddles Adam's thighs and kisses him, sitting down on Adam's knees and sliding forward until their dicks are nudging each other like they were in the car the last time.  The kissing feels good, warm and soft, sweet in a way Tommy hasn't kissed him before. Adam wants to know if it means Tommy's gonna call him back this time, but wanting to know and wanting to ask are two vastly different animals, so he remains in the dark.

Instead, when Tommy stops kissing him and rests his forehead on Adam's shoulder, Adam says, "So, my friend Danielle really wants to meet you, if, like, that would be cool. She doesn't know you're here or anything though, so if―"

"No," Tommy says. "I can meet her. She's not― If she's not your girlfriend or anything."

Adam laughs, and Tommy's face goes closed.

"What?" Adam says.

Tommy just parrots the question back at him, sarcastic.

"I'm not laughing at you." Adam's confused. "Just―" he gestures to indicate Tommy's whole look and dick and stuff. "You are clearly pretty much exactly my type. Which makes Danielle just _so. not_."

Tommy's glare melts into something softer, something maybe a smile. "I'm your type?"

It's like they're having two different conversations. Or at least two different experiences, because Adam's pretty sure he's poking Tommy's naked junk with his own mostly hard dick about ten minutes after shooting into Tommy's mouth. Not that he's had a lot of opportunities to try, but he's pretty sure he doesn't do that kind of stuff with people who aren't his type. Adam takes Tommy's hand off his shoulder and puts it on his dick. "You're my type." Tommy squeezes him, and Adam moans a little, thrown off his train of thought. Oh yeah. "And you were my best friend for a really long time and I missed you." He should maybe be looking Tommy in the face, but Adam's totally stuck looking at Tommy's hand on his cock. "I still― _fuck_ ―still miss you." He's so going to be cleaning these pants tomorrow.

Tommy doesn't say anything else, just speeds up his hand on Adam's dick, drawing both their eyes to the motion until Adam has to shut his, tightening his grip on Tommy's hips and gasping his name, finally giving him the warning he'd failed to the last two times. When he opens them again, Tommy's wiping his hands on Adam's undershirt, the corner of his mouth turned up in a smirk.

"You said you like messy," he says when Adam looks at him, eyebrows raised in surprise.

Adam has to laugh at that, because he did. "Like your mess better," he says, which is true, though he didn't know it before now.

"You're crazy." Tommy's standing, tucking himself back into his jeans, tugging his shirt down to cover the still-damp spot, but Adam thinks he feels different, more like he's waiting, less like he's walking away already. Could be wishful thinking, but he's gonna pretend it isn't.

"Hope you like crazy," Adam says, nudging Tommy's shoulder as he stands and tries to make himself look more presentable, too. Thank god his t-shirt's white.

Tommy just looks at him and shakes his head, but the way his mouth's twisted up, he's totally failing to hide a grin, so Adam takes that as a yes.

They can't find Danielle in the mob backstage, and before Adam can ask if Tommy wants to come with the cast for pizza, Tommy's looking at his phone, frowning, saying, "Shit, my mom's here. Gotta go."

Adam bites down on the "call me," that almost flies out his mouth, and says, "Thanks for coming," instead. He doesn't catch the double entendre until he sees the look on Tommy's face. Which, from the way Tommy laughs at him, is obvious on his own.

"Any time," Tommy says. "For sure." He sort of kicks the side of Adam's foot, and then turns to worm his way to the door.

"Only students and teachers are allowed backstage," Chelsea says from behind Adam's shoulder. "That boy doesn't go here."

There are seven hundred kids at their school. Only Chelsea would think she knows all of them. Adam doesn't bother to tell her to fuck off, just goes to see if his parents are waiting for him.

 

When Adam wakes up the next morning, there are four texts in his inbox. At 12:07 AM Tommy said, "do you really get to keep the fangs?" At 12:23, "r u fucking sleeping already?" At 12:47, "like ur black hair btw," and at 12:51, "call me asshole but not b4 11."

Adam's phone helpfully informs him it's 10:12. He wonders if the prohibition against pre-eleven contact includes text messages, and decides if Tommy could text him after he was asleep, he can text Tommy before he's awake.

"why should i wait til 11 to call you an asshole?" he sends, knowing it's obnoxious, but unable to resist. He waits two minutes for a reply, but none comes, so he types, "I really get to keep my fangs," and then, "thanx btw," and then, "why are you still sleeping?"

He lies there for another five minutes with his phone on his chest, but he doesn't get a text alert, and he really needs to pee, so he gets up. Neil's lurking in the hall, waiting for him, and nearly gives him a heart attack.

"We're going to the Arboretum today, lazy," he says as soon as Adam opens his door.

Fuck, family outing. Adam forgot. "Go away," he says, pushing Neil against the wall―not hard, just firmly―so he can get past to the bathroom.

"I'm telling," Neil says, following him.

Not sure what he's going to tell, and caring even less, Adam shuts the door in Neil's face. "I'm telling," Neil shouts again, smacking the door with the flat of his hand when Adam engages the lock with a snap.

Adam's phone buzzes while he's brushing his teeth. "it's saturday. why are you up?"

Adam spits, rinses, and uses mouthwash before replying, "had text msgs to read."

"doin anything later?" comes back while Adam's message is still sending.

Feeling a little giddy with the fact that Tommy's not only texting him but seems to want to _see_ him, Adam sits on the edge of the bath before tapping out his reply. "sposed to go to arboretum later―" Adam debates asking if Tommy wants to come, but goes with, "can probs get out of it if you wanna hang out."

He does not expect Tommy to come back with, "wanna go bowling?" Adam hates bowling. The shoes are disgusting, last time he went he dropped a ball on his toe, and he's really really bad at it.

"ok," he says. "what time?"

 

Eber is irritated and Neil is whiny when Adam asks if he can go bowling with Tommy instead of going out with the family to look at plants, but Leila says he should go and have fun, and even offers him a ride to Burbank on the way.

"Burbank is not on the way," Eber says, and Neil says, "Yeah. It's totally not on the way," but Leila shoots them both quelling glares and tells Adam to eat something healthy for breakfast, doing that thing where she looks like she wants to pet Adam on the head, but remembers at the last minute he's fifteen, not five.  Adam escapes to the kitchen before her maternal urges get the better of her.

It takes an hour or so for them all to get ready, and Adam texts Tommy from the car when they're on the move. Tommy texts back with the address of the bowling alley, and Eber grudgingly puts it into the GPS. Adam puts his headphones in, in the hopes of tuning out Neil's, "Why are you going bowling? You hate bowling. Why are you friends with Tommy again? I thought you weren't friends anymore..." blah blah blah.

"Neil," Adam eventually hears his mom say over Placebo's cover of Running up that Hill, "can it."

Neil pouts the rest of the way to Burbank.

Tommy's leaning against the building when they pull up, thankfully _not_ smoking, because Adam's pretty sure his mom would change her mind about this being a good idea if she saw that. He's got a giant paper Coke cup in one hand and his phone in the other, which he lifts in a wave, squinting into the sunlight.

"Hey," he says when Adam gets out of the car. Adam feels himself grin like an idiot.

Leila rolls down her window, and Adam forestalls any embarrassing mom moments by leaning in and thanking his parents again for the ride. She gets the message and doesn't try to kiss him, or say anything to Tommy, just tells him to have fun, and pats Eber's hand on the gear shift. Adam sighs in relief when they drive off.

"Nice of your parents to drive you," Tommy says, shoving his phone into his pocket. "Can't believe my mom wouldn't let me take the driving test. I can't wait to fucking be able to drive."

"Why'd she do that?" Tommy's birthday was while he wasn't returning Adam's calls, and Adam figured Tommy just didn't have a car.

"When I got grounded?" Tommy says, and sucks at his Coke. "It was 'cause she found a fifth of bourbon under my bed. So she took away my phone for two weeks and said I couldn't take my driving test until I'm seventeen."

"Wow." Adam's not sure what else to say. He can't really imagine hiding booze in his bedroom, so he's not sure what his mom would say if he did.

"She doesn't trust me not to drink and drive or whatever."

"Wow," Adam says again.

"So we bowling or what?" Tommy tosses his cup in the trash can at the corner of the building and heads for the door.

It's a lot darker and a lot louder inside than Adam expected and he loses Tommy for a second while he tries to get his bearings, so arrives at the counter just in time to see Tommy slapping down money for two games.

"I really suck at bowling," Adam feels compelled to point out. "Like really suck."

"First game can be for practice, then," Tommy says. "We'll save strip bowling for round two."

The guy putting Tommy's money in the register says, "Stripper night's Thursdays," and then laughs like a donkey. Adam wishes he'd gone ahead and invited Tommy to the arboretum. Even Neil's constant whining would be better than this.

Tommy ignores the braying, takes his change, and heads for the shoe counter.

"Shoes here run small," he says. "Go up half a size."

The guy spraying shoes with disinfectant has his back to them and is bobbing his mohawked head to the metal music coming from the bowling alley's speakers.

"Yo, Frankie," Tommy calls.

When Frankie turns around, he smiles like a shark. "Tommy Joe Ratliff! Where the hell have you been, man?"

Adam tries not to stare at the trio of spikes in his lip that seem to bristle as he talks, or at the Virgin Mary tattoo climbing out the neck of his tank top onto his throat.

"Ya know," Tommy says. "Y'know." He flaps a hand. "We need shoes."

Frankie looks at Adam. Adam's pretty sure he's being found lacking. "Size's yer friend here?" Frankie says.

"Ten," Adam answers, then amends, "Ten and a half." His feet have been growing a lot lately and most of his nine and a halves are way too small.

"You still baby size?" Frankie holds his forefinger and thumb about an inch apart and uses them to point at Tommy.

"Quit bragging on the pathetic size of your dick," Tommy says. "Fuck you, baby size."

Frankie laughs. "Six and a half it is."

"Six and a half around, maybe. I'm an eight, asshole."

Adam shifts back half a step, hoping to get out of the spill of light over the shoe counter before Frankie or Tommy notices that he's flushed bright red. They're joking about dick size like it's no big thing. Since Tommy didn’t talk like this in elementary school and Danielle doesn’t have a dick to joke about, Adam’s never really had a friend like that. It would also be much better if Tommy stopped talking about his dick―his dick that Adam has had _in his mouth_ ―if he wants to go bowling and not like, get dragged into the bathrooms. And that thought is _really_ not  helping. Willing his dick to stay soft, Adam takes five deep breaths, focusing on the kinda nasty smell of overcooked hot dogs and stale popcorn. He comes back to Tommy and Frankie staring at him.

"Um?" Adam says.

"We got your shoes." Frankie taps their heels on the counter and Adam reaches out to take them. Tommy's got his in his hand already. "Have fun," Frankie says.

Adam is pretty sure Frankie's definition of fun―all his definitions of fun―are different from Adam's.

Tommy stands at the counter taking his shoes off and slipping on the clown shoes Frankie gave him, but Adam sits on the little bench between the counter and the lanes, because he doesn't want his socks to touch the carpet in here.

"Have you been bowling since Manny's birthday party?" Tommy asks, holding his hand out for Adam's shoes so he can take them back to Frankie at the counter.

Adam has to think. "Didn't we go with the guy who moved here from Tennessee for like three months in fifth?”

Tommy's nose wrinkles. It's not hot, because why would nose wrinkling be hot, but Adam is maybe staring a little bit. "Bruce Brewster? That was Manny's party I'm pretty sure. Either way―" he checks Adam has his shoes tied, and heads toward the lanes― “fifth grade. What do you guys do for fun in Santa Monica?"

Most kids go to the pier, or the mall, Adam thinks, but he and Danielle usually hang at hers or go to the movies or do theater stuff. "I don't know," Adam says.

They get set up, get their names in the computer and choose balls, and then Tommy asks if Adam wants a drink.

"I can get them. You paid for the game," Adam says. But Tommy gestures him back to the seats.

"I've got it." He's looking more at Adam's shoulder than his face. "You're cool." And with that he's shuffling off to the snack bar.

As Adam watches him go he wonders if this is maybe, like, a _date_. When he does stuff with his other friends, everyone pays for themselves. Also, his other friends don't follow him into the costume room and suck his dick. Or, like, send him texts at midnight telling him they like his hair.

There’s that whole third date rule Adam’s heard about, and they've had sex three times and haven't really been on a date yet, so they're kind of doing it backwards. Though they did go out to dinner, and some people go dutch on dates, Adam's pretty sure, and Tommy made Adam buy him lunch at the mall. Maybe this is actually their fourth date and Adam just didn't know.

"I got you Coke," Tommy says from over Adam's shoulder. "Hope that's― Hey, are you okay?"

"Yeah." Adam startles, puts a smile on his face. "Coke's great. Don't I look okay?"

"You look like you're trying to figure out if the train from Philly going sixty miles an hour or the train from Chicago doing fifty is going to hit the train from New York first."

"No, yeah." Adam says, his smile genuine now. He's pretty sure he's on an actual _date_. With _Tommy_. "I'm, yeah." It's possible his smile is approaching shit-eating grin territory.

Tommy grins back, still a little bemused, and plunks their drinks down on the table bolted between the molded plastic seats. "Let's bowl," he says.

Bowling is actually way better when he's just with Tommy. For a start, Tommy's not as great as Adam feared. Like, he knocks down pins and stuff, but he's not all gliding up to the line with perfect form or anything. And Adam's got a lot more upper body strength than last time he did this, and it's a lot easier to hold onto the ball. Plus, Tommy is fucking hilarious.

He does this little ass-wiggling dance when he gets a strike or a spare, and cracks himself up every time he does it. After one particularly enthusiastic time, Frankie calls down, "We need to get the pole out for you, Tommy Joe?" and Tommy flips him off with both hands, still grinning. He has stories about some of the kids they used to go to school with, girls who were shy that suddenly blossomed in high school, geeks who filled out and now are jocks, the girl who lived up the street from them who got pregnant and dropped out. Adam is surprised when they get to the end of the first game and it's time to start the next one. He can hear his dad saying, _Time flies when you're having fun._

Adam somehow opens the second game with a strike―his first ever―and Tommy jumps on his back, whooping. Stumbling forward, Adam grabs onto the console, trying to keep his feet, and he almost knocks over the dregs of his Coke in the process. Somehow he prevents the drink and Tommy and himself from hitting the floor, though he does get a knee to the kidney in the process.

"If this is your cunning plan to want me never to get a strike again, I think it's working," Adam groans, unhooking Tommy's arms from around his neck and dropping him down his back.

"We're playing this game for clothes, and I want to see you naked," Tommy says, winking, dancing backwards toward the ball return.

The man with two kids who is putting their info into the computer in the next lane looks at them, horrified. Adam starts laughing and can't stop until he sits down, head practically on his knees. When he looks up again, Tommy's at the line, ball up by his chest, looking over his shoulder like he can't go until Adam's watching.

"Good luck," Adam calls.

Tommy only knocks down one pin. He gets three more on his second bowl, but that's not going to beat a strike by any means. Without any prompting Adam's brain does the math and figures if Tommy has to take off an item of clothing for every pin left standing, they can go home right now, because he's gonna be stark naked. Not that he really thinks they're playing strip bowling. In public. But as Tommy comes back to where Adam's sitting, he flicks a glance at the next lane and when he sees only the dad is watching, he straddles Adam's thigh and lifts his shirt just enough for Adam to see that he's wearing navy blue briefs, and he has a few scratches just above his belly button like he got in a fight with a cat.

"Fuck," Adam says, a little breathless, a little reverent, but Tommy gives up the tease before Adam can get more than a glimpse, dropping his shirt hem and stepping out of Adam's way so he can get up and have his turn.

"This isn't that kind of date," Tommy says, smirking, like he's not the one practically putting his junk in Adam's mouth.

Adam stands and leans close, hands on Tommy's shoulders, lips right against his ear. "If I forfeit can I suck your dick?"

"If you forfeit you can't suck anything at all," Tommy whispers back, and then slaps his hip, pushing him in the direction of the ball return.

Somehow, instead of distracting him from the task at hand, the thought of sucking Tommy turns Adam into a kick-ass bowler. Or at least one who's a lot less crappy. When he wins―by three points, but a win's a win―Tommy whoops and does a victory lap around him, leaping again, but this time on his chest. Adam sees him coming and manages to grab around his waist and spin them both in a fairly impressive dance move, or so he assumes from the girl in the next lane saying, "Look, Daddy, it's the hot tamale train!"

Frankie gives them a slow clap from where he's wiping down his shoe counter and winks broadly.

"Is he gay?" Adam asks, low, as he puts Tommy down. The contrast between Frankie and the dad in the next lane is pretty marked.

"He's probably sucked someone off for blow at some point, but he's not gay I don't think. Why?"

"He just seems―" Adam can't really articulate that his relaxed attitude about Tommy and Adam comes as a surprise without it sounding like Adam's insulting him or stereotyping punks, or Burbank or whatever. But it's not Frankie that surprises him, but the way Tommy isn't trying to hide anything and doesn't seem to think it's a big deal. And how with Frankie, and the guy who took their money, Tommy's right. It just fucks with Adam's world view. "He doesn't care that you're gay?"

"I don't think he knows?" Tommy says.

Adam looks at the shoe counter again, but Frankie's got his back to them. "You don't?"

"Well, like, I never told him, or any of the guys I was, and it's not like we've been making out or anything."

Adam can't remember the last time one of his male friends jumped on him, or even touched him—it was probably Tommy, actually. And given everything that’s happened in the last few months, he’s not sure that counts. "Huh," he says.

"Don't think he'd care or anything. Saw him pin a guy with a boot to the neck for like twenty minutes once waiting for the cops when he caught the dude beating shit out of a fag in the parking lot."

Adam flinches as the word comes out of Tommy's mouth.

"Want another soda or something?" Tommy tugs Adam's belt loop in the direction of the snack bar. "When are your parents coming to get you?"

Adam looks at his watch. "Couple hours probably. Mom said she'd text me when they were on the way."

"Cool. Wanna play air hockey?"

The air hockey doesn't go nearly as well as the second game of bowling, partly because Adam hasn't played air hockey ever, but mostly because Tommy spends the entire time biting his lip ring in concentration, and all Adam can think about is sucking on it. And the way it feels against his dick when Tommy’s sucking him. By the time his mom texts to say they're almost there, Adam is so hard he's pretty sure he could hang a towel off it. And not just one of the little towels Frankie uses to wipe the shoes. He wishes his pants were tighter to hold it in more or looser to hide it better, but he's stuck with trying to tug his shirt down when he no longer has the game table to hide behind.

"Glad to see you like me kicking your ass," Tommy says, getting right up in his space and looking down pointedly.

"Shut up.” Adam totally wants to say _kiss me_ , but they're standing in the middle of a pretty crowded game room at a bowling alley, so he says, "Gotta piss," instead.

"Huh, me too," Tommy says. “Imagine that.”

While his eyes scan for the restroom sign, Adam tries not to think about the fact that he's so possibly about to get a hand job from the boy he's on a date with. The boy who he's maybe on a first date with, who is maybe kind of also his boyfriend, only maybe not, but who at the very least seems to want to be actual friends again. He finds the sign for the men's room and hustles in that direction, hem of his t-shirt gripped in both fists. He probably looks like he just pissed himself, but whatever.

It's a single-stall, urinal, sink situation. Adam was hoping for― He isn't actually sure, because if it were just a one-room, they'd have more privacy but feel more rushed and it would look weird for Tommy to follow him in, but this way feels all wrong, and―

"Dude, breathe," Tommy says, patting him on the back.

"I'm breathing." He's totally not breathing. He should do something about that.

"You gonna take care of that?" Tommy eyes his dick again, amused, and maybe a little like he likes it.

Adam goes out on a limb. "Or you could..."

Tommy shakes his head. "Told you, it's not that kind'a date. I'm wooing you."

"You're wooing me." That is the most ridiculous thing Adam's ever heard, and it should not be so fucking sweet.

"Totally wooing you. Whatever. I'll watch if you want, though."

For a second Adam thinks there's not going to be anything to watch except the spread of a wet spot on the front of his jeans, but he manages to stumble into the cubicle, holding the door open for Tommy behind him.

True to his word, Tommy doesn't reach for Adam's pants once they have the door locked; he settles his tiny ass on the handicap grab bar, arms crossed, that damn tempting lip ring caught in his teeth, the picture of expectant.

"You're really gonna―" Adam whispers.

"You really gonna?" Tommy's voice is pitched low and hits Adam right in the pool of heat in his belly.

How does Tommy always make Adam want to do the craziest things? He's never even thought about jerking off in a public bathroom, and now he's about to _do_ it with someone _watching_. "Will you at least― Can I kiss you first?"

Adam only catches a second of Tommy's grin as it's launched at his face, but he takes it as an enthusiastic yes.

Letting Tommy's momentum push him back against the wall, Adam pulls Tommy tight against him, cupping his ass in both hands. "Mmmpf," Tommy says into Adam's mouth when he finds himself lifted nearly off the floor, but then he gets his hands around Adam's shoulders and settles in. With Tommy's lip ring between his teeth, Adam wonders how the hell he managed to stay on his side of the hockey table for as long as he did. Gentle tugging makes Tommy squirm against him, licking makes him try to suck on Adam's tongue, and everything about kissing Tommy is just so much better than not kissing Tommy. Except for how it's actually been a really fun day of just hanging out like they used to, only with more of Adam staring at Tommy's ass. And face. And his other parts.

When Tommy lets go Adam's shoulder and moves a hand down to his hip, Adam thinks maybe it's gonna be one of those kind of dates after all, but Tommy pushes back instead, pleased grin on his face, returning to his perch. "Still wanna watch," he says.

Before he can think too much about it, Adam undoes his zipper, pulls his dick out through the fly of his boxers. Tommy's fingers twitch on the bar, but he doesn't move to help Adam out.

"Fuck," Adam breathes when he's got his fingers wrapped around himself.

"I could tell you a gross story instead," Tommy says.

That would so not help. At this point Tommy could probably not only talk about vomit, he could _actually_ vomit, and Adam would still be desperate to get off. Making out pretty much pushed him past the cold shower point. Angling so Tommy can mostly see him, but he can still pretend a little bit that he's not jerking off in a toilet with a boy if it gets too weird, Adam starts jacking his dick with the quick, efficient strokes he uses if Neil's banging on the bathroom door. It's not much of a show, but a glance at Tommy's face and Adam can see there's not going to be any complaining.

As he comes, Adam's thinking about getting Tommy somewhere alone and doing this again with more time and fewer clothes.

Darting in for another kiss, Tommy grabs Adam's hand as he's trying to wipe it off, and manages to smear jizz up Adam's wrist. From the look on his face, it wasn't an accident. They're both laughing as Adam unlocks the stall door.   

They share the sink, Tommy sliming Adam's hands up with the opalescent pink soap, carefully cleaning between his fingers and over his knuckles like Adam shoots motor oil. It feels really fucking good, but an old dude barges his way in the door, glares at them and starts yelling about how they shouldn't come in here and shoot up. Adam reaches for the paper towels, Tommy bristling beside him.

"Shoot _you_ up, fucker," Tommy mutters as Adam pushes him back out into the game room.

"D'you know him?" he asks when he catches Tommy turned around flipping off the door.

"Know enough like him," Tommy says. "Let's wait for your mom outside."

The last thing Adam wants is their date to end on a sour note, but as Adam's eyes are adjusting to the daylight, Tommy grabs him around the waist and spins him in a dizzying circle before darting off toward where he'd been waiting for Adam to arrive.

Adam follows, and ends up leaning against the bricks, mostly hidden from the parking lot by a large sandwich board someone's put up advertising Happy Hour specials, tugging Tommy against him, back to chest. He doesn't want to get caught making out with Tommy, but his parents probably won’t think it’s too weird if they’re just hugging, and he wants to hold onto him while he has the chance. He figures _wooing_ is a good thing, but Tommy still lives on the other side of LA, and who knows when Adam's going to see him again.

"So was it better than you expected?" Tommy asks, tipping his head back against Adam's shoulder, grinning up at him.

For a second Adam thinks he means jerking off for him in a bathroom, but then he figures bowling is more likely. "It was okay." When Tommy tries to pout while he's still grinning, Adam starts tickling him.

"Fucker!" Tommy cries, but he's squirming back against Adam's body, not trying to get away, so Adam isn't buying his complaint. He's also very aware that all this wiggling, and gasping, and the way Tommy's grabbing his biceps and holding onto his wrists to make him stop is making Adam hard again, which will totally defeat the purpose of jerking off in the bathroom, except for how that was really fucking hot, and okay, that is _so_ not helping. Crossing his arms over Tommy's belly, Adam squeezes him tight, breathes in the smell of his neck, tries to settle down.

"Hate being tickled," Tommy mutters, and Adam peers over his shoulder at where his baggy jeans look noticeably less baggy than before.

"I noticed."

"Whatever. Shut up." Tommy lifts Adam's left hand and bites the flesh at the base of his thumb just as the Lambert's car pulls into the lot.

"I had a really great time," Adam says, wanting to kiss Tommy everywhere now that he really can't.

Tommy steps away from him, gives him a little salute. "Yeah you did."

The car is closer now, maybe ten feet away, Neil in the back seat flipping them both off where their parents can't see, Eber hidden in shadows, and Leila grinning at them out the open window.

"Hi, Missus Lambert, Mister Lambert," Tommy calls, giving them a little wave. "Thanks for giving Adam a ride."

Adam makes a run for the car before his mom can invite Tommy over for dinner, or start giving him the third degree or something. "Call me," he says to Tommy. Then, "I'll call you, too," in case Tommy thinks he has to wait three days or something. Because Adam's not waiting three days.

"Cool," Tommy says, and waves again before slipping around the side of the building in the direction of his house.

"We could have given him a ride," Leila says, twisting to look at Adam. "He didn't have to run off."

"Nah. That's cool. He was meeting someone." Adam loves his mom, but sometimes she's just really embarrassing.

 

Despite their schedules not meshing up for the next ten days or so, Tommy continues his wooing campaign over text and IM, alternating between funny bitchy commentary on the kids at school, links to YouTube or other shit on the internet, and cheeky or downright dirty suggestions of what he and Adam could do if only they had the place and the time. Once he gets started, Adam can hold his own in the bitchy stakes, and he has no problem at all keeping up on the linking, but Tommy’s the definite winner when it comes to sexting. Adam’s a lot more comfortable with actions than words.

Wednesday Adam gets a text from Tommy while he’s waiting for the school bus and then doesn’t hear from him again. He knows Tommy’s school has midterms this week, so he doesn’t really think much about it, and then after school Adam has jazz choir and then a voice lesson. When he texts Tommy between them and gets only “ttyl” in reply, he figures Tommy’s probably busy studying for whatever subject he’s got tomorrow, probably under his mom’s watchful eye. When he comes upstairs after dinner, Adam’s IM window has seven messages in it, starting with ‘Hello?’ ending with ‘bbl’ and filled in with links to five Johnny Cash songs, but Tommy doesn’t come back before Adam’s dad comes up and tells him to turn off the lights.

Adam’s lurking in that last moment of consciousness before sleep when his phone buzzes softly on his nightstand, lighting up his clock and the book for English he forgot to read before bed. Even really hoping it’s Tommy, he’s so tired he’s teetering between letting his eyes slip shut again and checking the text, but it keeps buzzing. Fumbling it toward him, he jolts awake when he sees Tommy's name above the little phone symbol on the display.

"Hello?" he croaks quietly, mindful of Neil sleeping on the other side of the wall.

"Fuck," Tommy says, his voice tight. "You were sleeping."

"No, you're good." Adam peers at the time. 12:39. Late to be calling on a school night, even for Tommy. Even when they haven’t talked all day. "What's up?"

"Nothing. I just―" Tommy breathes like he's trying to suck all the air out of the room. "Tell me something good, okay?"

"Hey, what happened?" Adam can't think of anything good. He can only think about the fact that Tommy's like twenty-five miles away and he sounds like he's gonna punch something any second.

"What are you wearing?" Tommy says.

"I― What?"

"What are you― Fuck it. That's stupid. One good thing that happened to you today. Please."

Tommy doesn't say please. Like, ever. Scrambling for something, Adam comes up with, "They had chocolate chip brownies in the cafeteria at lunch."

"Still hot?"

"Nah. Well, maybe a little? The chocolate chips were pretty soft." Adam definitely prefers his chocolate chips soft. Brownies, cookies whatever.

"Hell, yeah," Tommy says, and maybe sounds a little more like himself. "Warm brownies are the best."

Adam almost mentions that he passed his math test, but if Tommy's upset about failing a test, maybe he doesn't want to hear that. "Neil ate dinner at a friend's house, so he wasn't here being a little bitch."

Tommy doesn't say anything for several seconds, then softly, but without all the tension he'd started with, says, "I wish I could have come for dinner."

"Did you―" Adam rolls to his other side so he doesn't have the phone between his ear and the pillow. "Did you get in a fight with your parents?"

More quiet, broken by the sound of Tommy breathing. "Not really. Not with my― Know what? Never mind dinner."

"Tommy." Adam doesn't want to be a dick, but Tommy should fucking be able to tell him shit. They've been friends since they were _five_. Okay, with a break, but whatever. "Just fucking―"

"There was just a thing at school, and it fucking sucked and they didn't exactly take my side. Don't want to talk about it. Doesn't matter. Tell me something else good. Tell me how if you were here right now you'd let me rub off on your stomach, get you all messy."

"If I were there right now I'd hug you 'til you couldn't breathe." Adam would probably let Tommy rub off on his stomach, but he's far too embarrassed to say that on the phone.

"I can totally rub off on you while you're hugging me."

Adam can't help huffing a quiet laugh at that. "You're obsessed."

"I know how much you like it."

"Okay. I like it."

"See?"

"Why'd we have to move?" Adam asks. "What if we still lived three houses down. Do you think you'd still―" Adam's scared to finish.

"Still what?"

"You know."

"Still wanna jump you?" Tommy doesn't sound like he's teasing anymore.

"Maybe," Adam allows.

"I don't think that's the right question."

"How come?"

"D'you remember my birthday party?"

So, so clearly. "Yeah?"

"Problem wasn't ever _me_ not wanting to jump _you_."

Adam's skin prickles hot. "It wasn't― You surprised me! I was, like, twelve."

"You never called me again."

"You never called me either." Not that Adam would have had a clue what to say to Tommy if he had.

"I'm not the one who ran away."

"I'm not the one― It was the first time anyone tried to kiss me," Adam says helplessly.

"It was the first time I ever kissed anyone."

Adam has no idea what to say. He blurts out, "I'm wearing blue boxer shorts."

Tommy makes a choking noise. Then, before Adam can apologize, says, "Black t-shirt, camo briefs."

"I'm sorry you had a shitty day. And I ran off the first time you tried to kiss me."

"Woulda been doomed, anyway. I wasn't allowed to take the bus any farther than school until freshman year."

"No cell phone, no bus pass, no laptop. You're right. It's much better we waited." That and Adam had so not been ready to start thinking about sex with actual other people yet. He would have been the lamest boyfriend ever.

"Can I ask you a question?" Tommy sounds serious, but not _serious_.

"Okay," Adam says.

"If I'd actually tried to get you off on the bus that first night, what would you have done?"

"I―" Adam takes a deep breath, curling tighter like that will make his voice carry less, will make this less embarrassing. "Sometimes I―" Tommy doesn't interrupt to save him, just keeps breathing into the phone. Adam has to finish. "Sometimes I jerk off thinking about you putting your hand in my pants, getting me off in front of those guys, and I have to be so quiet, can't move, or they'll come over and make fun of us. Try to hurt us, maybe. And your hand feels so good but I can't make a sound." He's talking so fast by the time he gets to the end it might as well all be one word.

"Wow." There's a sound like Tommy's rolling over. "That is _so_ not what I expected you to say."

"Me either," Adam mumbles.

"Would you have, like, that night?"

"No. Maybe. I was pretty scared." Should he tell him? Fuck it. "That was only my second kiss."

"Shit. Seriously?" Tommy doesn't say anything else for the span of several heartbeats, and Adam's sure he fucked up somehow. Finally, and not like it's a bad thing, he says, "I'm the only guy you've ever kissed?"

"You're the only person I've done anything with. Except Rebecca Molnar, who played my wife in _Marriage of Figaro_. We kissed on the lips."

"No tongue, though, right?"

If Adam didn't know better, he'd almost think that was jealousy. "No tongue."

"Did you― You knew you were gay, though, right? Before."

"I knew I had no interest in Rebecca's tongue, even though she was apparently the hottest girl in eighth grade. And I thought Danielle's dad's _Hustlers_ were kinda gross."

"I think _Hustler_ can be kinda gross even if you do like girls," Tommy says. "You probably shoulda started with, like, _Playboy_."

"I moved on to GayTube," Adam admits. "I sorta looked at it as studying for college, though."

"Interesting entrance essay."

"I just didn't think―" No one had ever shown much of an interest in getting into Adam's pants before Tommy. At least not that he'd noticed. Though Danielle has always tried to tell him that he's shockingly unobservant. And she did know Tommy actually liked him before he did, so maybe she wasn't wrong about Jenna and Alicia. Maybe he just hoped she was. "I guess I was pretty sure I was gay," he says.

"Good." Tommy chuckles lowly. "I would hate to have contributed to the delinquency of a minor."

Adam has to bite his quilt against a guffaw. "Fuck off. That is like your favorite thing ever."

"You sucking my dick is my favorite thing ever." Tommy's voice skirts the edge between joking and not.

"Good thing I like―"

Adam's door opens with the clunk of its stiff latch giving way. "Adam Mitchel Lambert it is _one in the morning_." The fact that his mother is whispering does nothing to hide how angry she is. " _What_ are you doing on the phone?"

"Nothing," Adam says, filled with contrition.

She holds out her hand, arm rigid, jaw clenched.

"Gotta go, bye," Adam hisses into the phone before thumbing the disconnect.

"Adam," Leila says, a clear warning, when he doesn't hand it to her.

"I'm off now. I'll go to sleep."

She just holds her hand out farther, the light from the hall making her withering look ten times scarier than it usually is. Adam turns the whole thing off, figuring she's going to take it in her room, not wanting her to be wakened by texts from Tommy wondering where he went. Once she has it safe in her bathrobe pocket, she says, "You can have it back after school tomorrow, assuming you are bright-eyed at the breakfast table in the morning, ready to meet the day.” Adam doesn't bother saying that he hasn't been bright-eyed at the breakfast table since he was eleven, no matter how much sleep he had the night before, so that seems a little mean.

"Okay," he says instead, following up with the most sincere sorry he can muster. He _is_ awfully sorry that she took his phone away, so he sounds pretty convincing.

"And tell Danielle she can't call you after ten."

Adam manages to hold on to his sigh of relief that she doesn't suspect Tommy until after she leaves and shuts the door.

School the next day is torture. By rushing around like a crazy person, Adam was on time for breakfast, and he's hoping that open-eyed is close enough to bright-eyed that he's getting his phone back. In the mean time, since family breakfast meant he didn’t even have time to turn on his computer, he's stuck imagining Tommy sending text after text, wondering why he's not getting an answer.

"But he did that to you for like two months," Danielle says when she finds Adam under their usual tree at lunch time sadfacing over his sandwich. “He’s going to survive a day, I'm sure."

Adam isn't sure at all. “He was kind of weird last night. I don’t know. What if he stops texting me again?"

"Then he's a fucking idiot," Danielle says, and then changes the subject to the song she hates in the Winter Festival show. Adam doesn’t really have much of an opinion on any of them except that they are all better than even the best of the songs in _Young Dracula_ , so he just lets her vent while he worries that Tommy thinks Adam’s mad or something.

No one’s home when Adam gets there, and he looks in all his mom’s usual hiding places for his phone, but he can’t find it, and when he uses the landline to call her cell it goes straight to voicemail. Then, when he sees that it’s time Tommy should have gotten home, he goes to see if he’s logged onto IM, and there his phone is, sitting right on his laptop waiting for him. It’s still powered off, and he hopes that’s because his mom actually respected his privacy. He’s not totally stupid, he does delete Tommy’s dirty texts, but he doesn’t always do it right away, and he can’t remember if there are any still on there.

It takes forever to power up again, and Adam wakes up his laptop while he’s waiting, pouncing on the keyboard when he sees Tommy’s status dot is green. His flow of apologies is interrupted by his phone buzzing and buzzing and buzzing with incoming texts.  


* * *

  
They have a sub in bio the Thursday before Winter Break. Adam's pretty sure she last taught back when his parents were in high school―she looks like an apple doll―and she's not doing anything about the fact that no one is paying attention to the movie about single-celled something or others she's trying to show them. Danielle's painting Adam's nails black and silver, claiming she can see just fine in the flickering, under-water light coming from the screen, but Adam's pretty sure he's going to have silver blotches rather than silver lines.

"We need to dye your hair this weekend," she says, holding his left ring finger toward the screen and examining it critically.

His roots are definitely showing, but he was hoping to have Tommy do it for him. They went to the movies last Sunday and Tommy'd played with his hair in the dark, and now it's kind of all he can think about. Tommy standing between his knees, his stomach right there but out of reach because he won't want hair dye on any of his t-shirts, his fingers combing through―

"Adam. Hair. This weekend. Or do you want to do it after school today?"

"Oooh, you girls gonna get together and braid each other's hair this weekend?" Geoff Archer sneers from the next table.

"No. We're gonna shave my head," Danielle snaps. "Fuck off."

That gets the apple doll's attention. "Do you need to go to the office, miss? We don't talk like that in class." Manicures and homophobia are a-okay, but no swearing. Good to know.

That gets Adam out of telling Danielle he doesn't want her help. After all her complaining the first time he asked her to do it, it shouldn't be that big a deal, but Adam hasn't spent one weekend day with her since Tommy came to the play and he senses her happy-for-him is wearing thin. (The fact that he overheard her saying to Chrissy Rhoeman that Sandy was a total bitch for ditching Chrissy just because she has a boyfriend now might have played a part in the sensing, but Danielle doesn't know he heard that, so he can't say anything.)

Boys and girls are in different gyms for PE this week and Danielle has a yearbook meeting at lunch so he doesn't see her again until the bus stop. By which point he's sort of come up with a game plan.

"Wanna stop at the drug store on the way home?" he asks, getting right in there before she can say anything. "I already asked Tommy if he could dye my hair for me, because you didn't really seem to want to last time, but we could get some dye, and I might just buy you that Shatter glaze you've been eyeing up."

Danielle looks at him, mouth and eyebrows matching flat lines. "Are you kidding me?" she asks. Except it doesn't really sound like a question.

"No?" Adam says. He can't figure out where he went wrong. "I'll buy you something else if you already got the Shatter."

"You _are_ kidding me. Jesus." Danielle shoves him. "You're trying to _buy me off_?"

"Buy you― What?" Adam feels like everyone at the bus stop is staring, even though he can see with his own eyes that most of the other kids are ignoring them.

"Your old BFF comes back and you fucking just _dump_ me like I don't even matter, and then you think you can buy your way out of it with a crappy bottle of nail polish?"

OPI isn't crappy nail polish for a start, and Adam totally wasn't trying to― except he did pretty much hope that Danielle wouldn't be so mad at him about another Saturday of not hanging out if he got her a present. "I'm sorry," he says.

"Well you fucking should be," Danielle snaps. "I don't want your pity presents." Without even letting him say he's sorry again, she pushes past him to the other side of the crowd, just in time for the bus to pull up. By the time he gets on there are no seats anywhere near her. She gets off the stop before their usual, which means she has to walk five blocks instead of three to get home. Adam's pretty sure it's not because she wants the exercise.

Friday's a short day. Danielle's not on the bus, but Adam sees her ducking into homeroom while he's at his locker. It's hardly the first time her mom dropped her off in the morning, but he's suspicious. She's not in bio, but everyone is jumping around from seat to seat, sharing holiday plans and being generally disruptive, so the apple doll doesn't notice when Lexie says, "Here," out of the side of her mouth when she gets to Stori, Danielle on the attendance list. It's not even like Lexie and Danni are really friends. Adam wonders what they traded. Or if Danielle paid her. And if it was all to avoid Adam.

They don't have Drama, and they don't have lunch, and Danielle's not at the bus stop after school either. Adam gets his phone out six or seven times to text her, but can't think of anything to say. Instead he texts Tommy and asks when he can come over to dye his hair.

 

Neil has an indoor soccer tournament all weekend, so he and their parents are out of the house most of the day Saturday. Tommy's mom is meeting a friend in town and agreed to drop him at the bus stop in Century City. If it weren't for Danielle being a bitch and deciding not to speak to him, everything would be perfect for Tommy coming over to dye Adam's hair and hang out. He texts her while he's waiting for Tommy at the bus stop, asking if she wants to hang on Sunday, promising not to buy her anything, but she ignores him. So he texts Tommy to find out how far away he is.

"idk. just passed a hospital." comes back.

"almost there. next stop after park." Adam pushes himself off the low wall where he's been waiting in the shade, and heads for the corner.

When the bus stops with a squeal of hydraulic brakes, Tommy is the first one off. He's cut his hair since the last time Adam saw him―it's still long in his face, but much shorter over his ears and at the back―and he's wearing the makeup he bought at Sephora the day they went to the mall. He looks fucking amazing, and Adam feels scruffy as hell in his baggy t-shirt and jeans with his ginger roots showing through his unwashed hair.

"Hey," Tommy says, his face lighting up. "You're here."

"I was bored waiting at home. Figured I'd come down and take the four with you."

"You just don't trust my amazing ability to follow directions," Tommy says, bumping Adam's arm with his shoulder.

"Because you don't have one." Adam spies the number 4 coming, and the crosswalk ticking down the last few seconds to get across the street to the other bus stop. "Come on. Run."

Laughing and breathless, they make it to the stop with seconds to spare, having only been honked at once. They head to the back and tumble into the last empty double seat, Tommy landing half on Adam's lap. He shuffles over a little, so he's not squishing Adam up against the window, but he keeps one leg hooked over Adam's thigh. That gets them a sharp look from a woman about Adam's mom's age, and an indulgent smile from the older woman sitting next to her. Adam smiles back and rests his hand on Tommy's knee. It feels crazily like the bravest thing he's ever done. He takes this bus all the time, and he's got his hands all over his makeup-wearing boyfriend. The older woman winks at him, though, and his heart feels a little less like it's going to beat its way out of his chest.

By the time they've gone a few blocks, Tommy's taken his leg back so he can dig through his bag without elbowing Adam in the ribs, but once he's found his iPod, he leaves his bag so the women across the aisle can't see when he brushes his hand over Adam's dick. "Wanna get pizza for lunch?" he asks, all innocent, and Adam knows he's wondering what Adam would do if he undid his zipper.

"The pizza place is pretty crowded on a Saturday. Maybe we can make pizza at home," Adam says.

Tommy gives him one of his private smiles. "You've totally gotta hear this. This dude Lisa knows and I did it this week. He's fucking awesome with keyboards and shit, and he asked if I would play some guitar for him."

Adam takes the proffered earbud and nods when he's got it in his right ear. Tommy hits play. It's nothing like the metal sound Adam was expecting, has more of a trance groove, alternating between a strong guitar line and dominating keys. It's really good. He resists humming a melody over the top, not wanting to impose on Tommy's music or disturb the other passengers, but he can definitely hear vocals in his head. Tommy's got the other earbud, and is doing his best not to look at Adam every time the guitar comes in.

Distracted by the music, Adam ends up missing their stop, but Tommy's pleased smile that he got so into it makes up for the extra ten minutes it takes them to get home. They spend the walk talking about recording music on a home computer versus what it must be like to be in a real studio, about songwriting, and about Tommy's dream of playing guitar for a living someday.

"I'm getting a lot better now that Don lets me practice in his garage. Mom and Dad get annoyed by the noise when I do it too much at home."

"Is Don the guy on the keyboard?" Adam asks as he gets his house keys out of his pocket.

"Nah. He's the one on drums. He's like thirty or something, works in a bank. His garage is pretty sweet. Steve's the guy on keys. Don's his cousin."

It's weird to think of Tommy having this whole life, this whole group of people in it, that Adam can't imagine. Like, he knows Tommy didn't go into stasis when the Lamberts left Burbank, but he never talks about the people he goes to school with or anything. Tommy knows a lot about Danielle, but other than the shoe guy at the bowling alley, Adam's pretty sure he doesn't even know any of Tommy's friends' names. Adam should totally remember to ask Tommy more about his life, because he certainly didn't really think of Tommy getting serious about the guitar, making friends with old banker guys and like actually recording music. It's awesome and a little intimidating, somehow different from how Adam's joined a theater group and started taking voice lessons and doing his own things he didn't do when he and Tommy used to be friends.

"So," Tommy interrupts his thoughts. "Hair first?"

“Sure,” Adam says, because he suspects if they make out first he’ll forget all about hair dying.

Adam and Neil's bathroom has a slate floor that his mother would kill over if it got stained with hair dye, so Adam lays down one of the old beach towels they use for mopping up leaks before setting a folding chair in the middle of the room, and takes off his shirt before putting a second towel around his shoulders. Tommy looks up from where he's mixing the dye with the activator and gives him a wolfish look. Adam is tempted to kiss him, but he doesn't want to mess up his lipstick, so he satisfies himself with sticking his tongue out while he lowers himself gingerly into the cold metal chair.

"Promises, promises," Tommy says. "I'm gonna start at the front, okay?"

It's just like Adam's fantasy―except Tommy smells faintly of gardenias from where Adam hipchecked him into the bush on the corner―with Tommy standing between his spread knees, faded yellow Nirvana smiley right in front of Adam's face, Tommy's jeans riding several inches lower than the tee's hemline making Adam want to lean in, nose his underwear out of the way to see skin.

"You're staring," Tommy says, smiling, pulling the gloves that came with the hair dye more firmly over his fingers.

"You're hot," Adam counters, but he lifts his eyes to Tommy's face.

"Okay. Here we go." Tommy lifts the bottle and squeezes a line of cold goop onto Adam's part, spreading the dye along the line with a fingertip. It makes Adam shiver.

Where Danielle used a comb, Tommy uses the nozzle of the bottle to make a new part and then smooths the hair down with his fingers before repeating his original action. Adam shivers every time he does it, tiny spasms in his chest and shoulders that he tries to hide. The dye doesn't sting any more or less than when Danielle did it, but the tingle is traveling from his scalp right down his spine, pooling low in his belly. He does okay keeping his hands to himself at first, until Tommy tilts his head down to do his crown, and Adam's staring right at the bulge that seems to be all that's holding Tommy's pants up. When Tommy combs through Adam's hair with his whole hand, pulling a section forward, Adam makes a noise somewhere between a whimper and a sigh, and grabs onto Tommy's waist.

"Sorry, d'that hurt?"

Adam can only shake his head slowly no, not wanting to make the dye drip or dislodge Tommy's hand. His throat's too dry for any sound.

"No sucking my dick until we're done here," Tommy says. "You're just gonna have to wait."

With an audible swallow, Adam pushes his thumbs under the elastic of Tommy's jockeys. But he doesn't go farther, just leaves them there, an inch either side of Tommy's faint happy trail, pressing gently into the soft skin like a promise.

He's just gonna hold on for a moment, just get his bearings again, but he finds he can't let go. Tommy doesn't stop what he's doing, sectioning out Adam's hair, rubbing dye onto the roots, maybe tipping his hips into Adam's grasp a little, but otherwise concentrating disturbingly well. Adam doesn't think he should be the only one feeling breathless, so he strokes up to Tommy's ribs then down, fingers pushing under the edge of Tommy's briefs to squeeze at his ass.

"I'm gonna get hair dye all over your face if you make my jeans fall off," Tommy says, holding his hands out stiffly either side of Adam's shoulders. "Maybe I should do the rest from back here. Smiling down at Adam, he twists out of his grip and eels around to stand behind Adam instead.

"I liked you better up here," Adam says, putting as much pout in his voice as he dares.

"Yeah, well, I'm almost done, and then you can put me wherever you want." He flicks the back of Adam's neck.

"Promise?" Adam says.

Tommy just gets back to work.

Fortunately he really is almost done, because Adam is pretty sure if he doesn't get his mouth on Tommy's dick soon he's going to―

He's just gotta get his mouth on Tommy's dick.

If he'd been thinking, Adam would have set the chair up so he could look in the mirror, but he wasn't, and he can only see the frosted glass of the shower doors and the towel rail under the gingham curtains at the window unless he cranes his neck around. Which he could, but when he's done with the last little bit along Adam's hairline, Tommy says, "Wait there," and something about Tommy tends to make Adam do as he's told. He can hear Tommy putting things on the counter, the plastic crinkle of his gloves coming off, and then something that he really hopes is actually the sound of his shirt being pulled over his head, not just a horrible tease.

When Tommy comes back into view his jeans are barely on at all, his jockeys are sitting below his hipbones, and his t-shirt is nowhere to be seen. The need to bite the soft stretch of skin at the edge of his stomach overwhelms Adam, and he forgets that his hair is covered in dye.

"So, wh―AAGH!" Tommy says as Adam grabs him, trying to reel him in. But he's too quick, gets a hand on Adam's forehead and another on his shoulder, keeping himself tantalizingly out of mouth's reach.

"You are such a tease," Adam says, pushing against Tommy's hold.

"Twenty minutes. And I never said you couldn't touch with your hands." Tommy, because he's cruel, squirms a little, making Adam's grip on his waist shove his briefs down another half inch.

"I can suck you off without getting any dye on you. I know I can," Adam promises. "Besides. You took your shirt off."

"Tell you what." Tommy gives Adam's forehead an extra little shove and steps back out of range. "Until you're rinsed and at least a little dry, no putting your face anywhere near my skin. But," he adds when Adam tries to protest, "until then, I'll do anything to you that you want to do to me."

Adam's dick jumps before his brain has even parsed the words, and when he gets it, it takes him a second to figure out how to get enough oxygen to speak. "So I want to bite you there―" Adam points at Tommy's hip, his other hand drifting unconsciously to rub his own where he means, "so you bite me instead?"

Tommy does his trick where he raises an eyebrow without even moving his face, and nods. Adam scrambles out of his chair, pushing the towel off his shoulders and kicking it aside while manhandling Tommy around to sit in his place. Laughing, off balance, Tommy sits with a thud, says, "I'll take that as a yes, then." He reaches out as Adam pushes his jeans lower on his hips and steps between Tommy's knees.

It isn't until he's looking down at the blood-black oval on his abs that Adam remembers Tommy's wearing lipstick. Or remembers what that means, anyway. His brain flashes back to some movie or TV show where guys got points for the number of lipstick stains they had in their shorts and a mom freaked out on laundry day, but he's gonna be showering in about twenty minutes so no laundry, and _oh, fuck_ , "Tommy, jesus, do that again. On my dick."

"Bite you?" Tommy says doubtfully, and thank god, because _ow_ , what?

"No." Adam's brain catches up. "The lipstick."

Tommy's smile is kind of amazing, but Adam doesn't get to see it long, because Tommy bows his head and yanks Adam's jeans open, hauling his junk out through the fly of his briefs so he can press a kiss to the top of it. It's more like how you'd kiss an envelope to leave a lip print than anything designed to turn Adam on, but Adam isn't actually sure he wouldn't get off on Tommy leaving lip prints on envelopes and this is his _dick_ , so the rough noise that comes from his throat is totally not his fault.

"You thinking about all the cheerleaders getting up on your junk?" Tommy asks, voice muffled as he smears lipstick down the side of Adam's cock.

"Not unless there's something 'bout your extracurriculars you're not telling me," Adam manages, a little shaky, but clear. "Thinkin' 'bout you all messed up from sucking my―"

He doesn't finish, because Tommy stops teasing and starts sucking, and when he tilts his head Adam can see he has deep-purple smeared on his cheek, and who the fuck needs words when you've got that.

 

After, legs still rubbery from coming standing up, Adam turns on the shower, so he can rinse his hair and get his turn sucking his boyfriend. Weirdly, he’s a little shy about taking his pants off while Tommy’s just standing there watching him, face totally debauched like one of those ‘edgy’ photo shoots from his dad’s old music magazines, where they made the models look like heroin addicts who just had an orgy. Adam mostly wants to ask him if he’ll keep his face like that but instead he says, “There’s some makeup wipes in the medicine cabinet if you want,” because that seems like what he’s supposed to say. While Tommy’s turned away, Adam shucks his jeans and darts behind the shower doors. When he opens his eyes again after rinsing out the dye, Tommy’s sitting on the abandoned chair. Between the steam and the texture of the glass, Adam can’t see if Tommy’s looking at him or not.

Adam’s debating the merits of facial cleanser versus shampoo versus asking Tommy to hand him the makeup remover because the bar of Ivory doesn’t prove up to the task of getting all Tommy’s lipstick off his dick, when Tommy says, “My family’s going to Hawaii on Monday.”

Adam’s chest lurches with excitement, translating the words for a second into they’re going without Tommy again like that first night they had pizza, but then, before Adam can even blink, he hears they’re all moving there and Adam’s never going to see Tommy again. In his distress, Adam forgets the stubborn mark he’s trying to remove is on some pretty sensitive skin and goes after it with his fingernail. The _Ow, fuck!_ and the _What? No. What?_ come out all garbled together.

“For Christmas,” Tommy clarifies. “And New Years. We’re back on the second or whatever. Are you okay?”

Adam literally sags against the wall, something he’s only ever done on stage, except then he had to hold himself up and only look saggy or he’d have knocked over the set. Actual sagging is easier, even if it kind of makes him feel like a fucking Victorian maiden or something. “I’m fine,” he snaps, cringing, because wow, that wasn’t convincing at _all_.

“Uh huh,” Tommy says, and Adam can see the denim-and-black-and-pale shape of him shifting on the other side of the pebbled glass like maybe he’s about to get up and check for himself.

“No, seriously. Fine. Just―“ Adam pushes himself back to standing with a shaky hand, running the other through his extra-slick hair. “I thought that was you telling me you’re leaving.”

Tommy’s definitely looking at him now; Adam can see from the angle of the darker pale of hair falling over his face and the smudges of his eyes. “It was.” Tommy’s hand goes to his head in a move that echoes Adam’s, one that Adam’s seen Tommy do hundreds of times. He’s been doing it since they were seven and Mr. Ratliff stopped taking Tommy to his barber to get him a buzz cut. “I would have told you more than two days before if we were moving, though. Not that you gave me much notice when you left Burbank.”

“I told you the day my parents told me! That wasn’t my fault.” It was the next day, actually, but it was as soon as he could. His parents broke the news after dinner, all excited because they’d found a house, bigger and nicer and closer to his dad’s work, and then were mystified when Adam wouldn’t stop crying and shouting that he hated them. They wouldn’t let Adam leave the house while he was that mad. “They didn’t want to bother me and Neil with the details until they had them ironed out.”

“I like your parents and everything, but they’re fucking idiots,” Tommy grumbles.

“Yeah.” Adam can’t really disagree with that. He still hasn’t totally forgiven them. “But we’re―“ he’s not exactly sure what word to use, but decides on, “friends again now, right?”

“You're definitely my friend. The kind who owes me a blowjob. Are you almost done in there?”

Adam turns off the water. “Hand me my towel?”  


* * *

  
One thing that sucks about living in LA and being only fifteen is that there is a ton of amazing live music you can't see because you're not twenty-one. But also, pretty much every rock tour ever has an LA date, and if your parents are cool you can go see them. Adam's parents are maybe a little bit _too_ cool, because a lot of the shows he wants to go to his dad wants to go to, too, but that does mean Adam doesn’t have to worry about getting a ride, and since he turned fourteen, if he wants to go with friends, his dad is usually okay about not sitting with them, so it could be way worse. Plus, Danielle's parents are only moderately cool, and they will only let her go to shows if Eber is going to chaperon.

Before Danielle stopped speaking to him, Adam got them tickets to go see My Chem at the Hollywood Bowl two days before Christmas. They're her favorite band ever, and she goes back and forth on an almost daily basis torn between which one of them she wants to marry. Adam has pointed out that they’re all married already, but she doesn't see why that should make any difference. And since Adam can totally see how a person might want to sleep with Gerard Way, and Frank Iero reminds him of Tommy in ways that make Adam glad he's probably never going to get a chance to meet him in person because it could get awkward, he doesn't feel as inclined to argue as he might. The trouble is, he's not sure how he's going to tell her about the tickets now that she’s not speaking to him.

After about ten unanswered texts and as many ignored phone calls, Adam recruits his dad to help. He does have to explain that Danielle is mad at him, but Eber buys that it's about Adam hanging out with Tommy again without Adam having to explain about the whole thing where Tommy’s his boyfriend.

"Just call her dad and check with him if it's okay if she comes. And get him to tell her about it."

He rolls his eyes, but Eber talks to Mr. Stori, who apparently doesn't know Danielle's pissed at Adam, and takes it at face value that Eber assumed he’d want the opportunity to talk to the man who'll be chaperoning his daughter in the crowd before Danielle got her hopes up. Less than ten minutes after his dad gets off the phone, Adam's cell beeps with a text.

"don't think this is getting you off the hook asshole. but you must hav got the tx months ago, so I'll come."

He texts her: "miss you. we'll pick you up at 530." He doesn't hear back.

The three days waiting for the concert are the longest Adam can remember, since Tommy's away, Neil has a bad cold so can't go play with his friends, it's raining, and Danielle still won't return any of his efforts at communication. On the plus side, Tommy’s text plan works in Hawaii, but on the minus side, he seems to be spending a lot of time out, doing family stuff or swimming or riding around on mopeds, which he tells Adam about at night in little flurries of messages, but which keep him off his phone for most of the day. And sharing a bedroom with his sister and three cousins seems to put him off texting Adam anything dirty. By lunch time on day two, Adam is about to pull his own skin off in frustration.

He doesn’t see why it’s such a big deal, but he can’t exactly argue with his mom’s math when she bangs on his door and complains that he’s been listening to "Personal Jesus" on repeat for more than two hours. She should be happy it’s Depeche Mode and not Marilyn Manson, but happy is not at all how he would describe her tone. “We’re going to the movies,” she says once he’s turned the stereo off. “I cannot stand you moping around this house for one more second!”

“I’m not moping,” Adam calls through the door, which apparently in mom-speak means, _do please come in and glare at me with your arms crossed._

“I’m _not_ ,” he tries again when she adds raised eyebrows and pursed lips to her tableau of doubt.

“Superheroes or tear-jerker,” she says. “Those seem to be the choices in December.”

The last thing Adam’s in the mood for is watching some dude cry into his cornflakes because his wife has cancer and is cheating on him with his brother, or whatever the Oscar contender for this year is, so he mutters, “Superhero.”

“That’s what I thought. Now hurry up, or there won’t be time to buy popcorn.”

It’s just the two of them, since Eber is staying home with Neil who’s still coughing up disgusting sludge every five minutes, and though he’s not going to admit it to his mom, Adam actually has a pretty good time. They end up in the new Sherlock Holmes movie, which isn’t exactly superheroes, but is close enough. Jude Law is hot, but not so hot that Adam has to bundle his sweatshirt in his lap to avoid embarrassing himself, and his mom only talks a little bit about Robert Downey Jr. and how long she’s had a crush on him, not pressing Adam to state an opinion on the subject. Bonus, there’s enough going on onscreen to distract him from his woes for a couple of hours.

When he manages a smile when his mom asks how he liked it, she says, “So where do you want to go to dinner?”

They end up in a little neighborhood Italian place with high-backed booths and red-glass candleholders at the tables. Adam’s mouth is full with his second piece of garlic bread when Leila says, “It’s nice that you’re seeing more of Tommy Joe.”

Adam’s pretty sure that she doesn’t mean ‘more’ in the way where he gets to see Tommy without his clothes, but that doesn’t stop a lump of bread going down the wrong way, leaving him gasping into a napkin while his mom pats his arm and holds out his glass of water.

“Sorry, honey,” she says once he can breathe again and his eyes have stopped tearing. “I didn’t mean to― you haven’t broken― been fighting or anything have you?”

If his mother just started to ask if he and Tommy broke up, Adam doesn’t want to know. His mother absolutely does not need any information about him liking boys, or that he and Tommy are anything but friends again. “No,” he assures her. “Just me and Danielle. Tommy and I are fine.”

“You never told me what happened with Danielle,” she says gently.

“She doesn’t think it’s nice I’m friends with Tommy. She’s being a jealous b― brat.”

Leila’s lip quirks when Adam catches his language, but she doesn’t laugh at him. “You’re pretty amazing, kiddo. Surely you can see how she misses having you around.” And it’s his mom’s job to think he’s amazing, but it still feels pretty good to hear it. “Wanna tell me what happened?”

Adam’s surprised to find he does.

His mom is a really good listener, and while she agrees that Adam shouldn’t have tried to buy Danielle off with nail polish, she also thinks Dani’s been taking the not-speaking-to-him thing too far, and he can’t really ask for fairer than that. “Can I make a suggestion?” she asks once she’s heard him out.

Adam shrugs, suspicious that he already knows what she’s going to say.

“Maybe don’t mention Tommy every five minutes tomorrow night.” He was totally right. “You bought those tickets for you and her for a reason. Make sure you show her you remember that.”

Adam’s absolutely going to do that. Because his mom is smart, and also, as much as he could spend every second of every day with Tommy forever, he really does miss Danielle.

 

When Eber pulls up in front of the Storis’ house at 5:27 the night of the concert, Danielle is already on the porch. She’s got her hair in tight braids either side of her head, way more makeup on than she usually bothers with, and is wearing an _Art is the Weapon_ tee Adam’s never seen before, though he knows she’s been wanting one. Her favorite black hoodie is scrunched in one fist, and she’s clutching her phone in her other hand. Turning to shout something through the screen door, she bounces off the steps and is halfway down the walk before Adam’s dad can even put the car in park.

“Think she’s excited?” Eber says wryly, having been to more than one concert with Danielle in the last few years. Adam spies her combat boots laced tight to her ankles then loose over her skinny jeans. She’s ready to dance. You can always tell what Dani expects from a gig by looking at her shoes.

“I think she’s excited,” Adam agrees, his heart lifting a little as he scrambles to undo his seatbelt so he can offer her shotgun.

Even better than the grin on her face and the boots on her feet is the way she throws herself at Adam when he gets out of the car to greet her. “I’m still mad,” she says into his neck as she clings to him, “but I love you so much right now I could pee.”

Adam bursts out laughing at that. “Please don’t,” he says pushing her away and grinning at her. “But I’m glad you’re happy. It’s been killing me keeping this a secret.”

“My Chemical Romance. Live. Did I mention I love you?”

“If you have a summer wedding, we’d be happy to host it in the backyard,” Eber says through the open door, making Adam freeze and his face go hot. “Let’s get going, or we’ll miss the openers.”

Danielle doesn’t react to the wedding crack, thankfully, just shoves Adam out of the way so she can climb in front. “Hi, Mister Lambert. Thanks for driving.”

Over the sound of the closing doors, Adam can’t hear what his dad replies, but it makes Danielle laugh and say, “I don’t think anyone loves Gerard Way more than I do.”

Then, in celebrated pre-concert tradition, Eber cranks _Danger Days_ on the stereo, and they’re off.

Adam has never been sure what his dad did in another life to deserve the parking karma he has, but someone’s pulling out of Eber’s preferred secret space in easy walking distance of the Bowl just as he slows to pass it. It’s hard not to take it as a sign. Especially when Danielle links fingers with Adam and starts to pull him toward the venue as soon as Eber’s finished admonishing them both to leave their phones on, and to head back for the car as soon as the show is over.

Since neither of them have a bag to search, the first ticket check goes quickly. Then it feels like everyone who’s worked there ever has to look at their tickets before they finally get to go to their seats. Where, of course, Danielle says, “Wait. I wanted merch.” Adam’s grateful it’s not general admission or he might have had to kill her. After a million years in line, she ends up with a hoodie and two tees, and a third she makes Adam buy because they’re out of smalls and if she can’t have it, she’s determined that she gets to see it on him. Fortunately it’s black, and also pretty cool, with just the spider graphic from the album on it, and not, like, something he’s going to have to explain to any assholes in the locker room. While Danielle would be quite happy to say, “To my foot in your ass,” if anyone asks her what the aftermath is secondary to, Adam knows he’d mean to say something short and cutting but would start trying to explain the vision of _Danger Days_ or whatever, and school is easier when he doesn’t do shit like that.

With the sun going down it’s getting cold, so Adam puts his shirt on when they get back to their seats, though he pretty much feels like a tool wearing merch actually _at_ a concert. Better that than peeling off the shirt he was wearing and showing everyone around him his chest while he puts the spider one on underneath, though. Dani doesn’t put her own shirts on, but she does pull her new CHEM hoodie over her plain old black one. “Let’s rock,” she declares once she’s got everything where she wants it.

Adam enjoys the openers more because Danielle keeps looking at him with a huge grin on her face than because the music is anything particularly amazing, but he’s pretty sure he’d feel that way no matter what. Tommy is the best thing that’s ever happened to Adam, even when he’s kind of confusing, but Danielle’s Danielle, and sometimes it’s nice to hang out with someone without wanting to get in their pants.

In the setup between the second opener and My Chem, Danielle starts digging under all her hoodies and pulls a small envelope out of her pocket. “This isn’t me handwaving the fact you were a jerk,” she says, giving Adam a hard stare. “But it was childish of me to just stop speaking to you for so long instead of giving you a chance to apologize.”

“I really am sorry,” Adam says. He wants to take the envelope from her, see what it is, but he waits for her to hand it over.

“Your present,” she says as she does. “For you to use with _me_.”

It’s a hand-made gift card, good for a mani-pedi and a movie for two. Adam dives at her and gives her the biggest hug he can, grinning into her hair as she clings back. The night only gets better from there.  


* * *

  
Adam's fifteenth birthday was celebrated with his parents, Neil, Danielle, and five kids from his theater group. They ate lasagna and cake and played Karaoke Revolution. It was fun, but it's not what he wants for his sixteenth.

"What do you want to do?" Leila asks when Adam nixes her party plans.

It isn't a good idea to tell his mother that he wants to get his license, borrow her car, and drive up into the hills so he can blow his boyfriend in the back seat with the lights of LA spread out below him. He knows this. He has no desire whatsoever for his mother to have any of this information, except maybe the license part. It's still really hard to not say it, since he's been thinking about it in increasingly graphic detail for days.

"I don't know," he says instead. "Maybe we can have a family party after my test appointment Monday afternoon, and then I can go out with my friends in the evening?"

The look his mom gives him would play great on stage. "You know you can't take your friends out in the car unless your dad or I come with you, right?"

"We don't need the car," Adam says. He wants the car. A lot. But he knows he can't have it.

"Okay," Leila says. "Eleven o'clock, though. It's a school night."

"You're the best," Adam says, and kisses her on the forehead. It makes her happy, and he likes to make her happy.

The twenty-ninth dawns sunny and not too cold, thank god, because Adam really doesn't want to take his driver's test in the rain. He has a text from Tommy wishing him happy birthday and saying he'll see him later, and one from Danielle telling him not to bother bringing lunch to school, and his mom got up early and made french toast. There's a card from his parents with tickets for _Wicked_ inside, and Adam has to get up and hug them both, and Neil says, "You better not expect me to go," but then he has a card, too, and he made Adam a mix CD with some pretty cool music on it, and he says, "happy birthday," and mostly sounds like he means it, so Adam totally forgives him for being snotty about _Wicked_.

Breakfast takes extra time so Leila drives him to school, and she promises to be back at 2:40 to pick him up and take him to the DMV. Adam's not sure how he's going to wait 'til then. He's still gonna have to take the bus mostly, because he knows his parents aren't getting him a car, but _sometimes_ he's gonna get to drive and it's going to be amazing.

Adam feels like he's going to fly out of his skin by second period, and it's only having seen Ms. Miller's zero-tolerance phone policy result in six of his classmates, including Danielle, getting their phones confiscated that keeps his in his backpack during third period biology where they're talking about the production of ejaculatory fluid. Tommy's school is less strict about phone usage, and Tommy sometimes sends him dirty texts during class. Adam's never been more tempted to return the favor.

When he checks his phone as he's rushing to fourth, though, the text he has from Tommy isn't dirty. He doesn't think. "Meet you at Muma on Melrose at 5:30." Adam's pretty sure Muma is a restaurant, and not like― He's not actually sure what it might be that was dirty that he and Tommy could get into without fake IDs. But Tommy's kind of weirdly sneaky about things like that, even if he's still never going to get served beer in Pizza Express.

"Can't wait :D" Adam texts quickly before slipping through the door, shoving his phone in his bag again.

Lunch is deli sandwiches and homemade cupcakes courtesy of Danielle. "I'm not mad you're celebrating without me," she says, holding his sandwich back over her shoulder so he can't reach it.

"You met him, Danni. And he wants to take me out. I was gonna say no?"

"You're a lucky bastard," Danielle says. She hands over his food. "I'm not really mad."

They’d spent the first half of New Year’s Eve drinking the booze Danielle’s cousin Marisa bought them, and the second half crying into each other’s necks about how they never wanted to fight again, and most of New Year’s day nursing hangovers and the remnants of hurt feelings, and things have been much better since. But Adam has been trying his hardest not to shove Tommy in her face, though the three of them had lunch when Tommy got back from Hawaii so she could get to know him a little.

"I'm really not, Adam." She nudges his knee with hers. "Honestly? I'd probably dump your ass in a heartbeat if I got a boyfriend, even if I didn't mean to. And we still hang out at school all the time, and you came over twice last week, and I do have other friends, you know."

"He's just kind of amazing." Adam can feel the sappy grin that always creeps onto his face when he thinks too much about his boyfriend, and Danielle eyes it with a wry smile of her own.

"Besides which," she says, "I am totally not going to be sticking my hand in your pants, and I'd hate to deny you a happy ending to your birthday."

"I better be getting one of those happy endings to my lunch, though," Adam says gesturing at the box of cupcakes just out of reach.

"You can even have two. And, hey! No refractory period."

Adam decides not to tell her that when you're fifteen and your boyfriend is as hot as Tommy, the refractory period isn't as big a deal as Ms. Miller made it out to be. He hopes this is also true about being sixteen, remembers that it seems to be true in Tommy's case, and takes a bite of his sandwich so Danielle doesn't ask why he's grinning inanely to himself again.

The second half of the school day is worse than the first half, but finally Adam's climbing behind the wheel of his mom's mini-SUV and on the way to the DMV. The test goes okay―he never goes over the speed limit, stays in his lane, stops for pedestrians, and is really careful to avoid California stops. He loses a few points, but he passes, and that's what important. There's cake at home to celebrate, and his mom invited Danielle, so he gets to celebrate with her after all. She even comes when his mom drops him off in Hollywood. Leila lets him drive, but she's not letting him keep the car.

Adam walks into Muma at 5:29, and Tommy's waiting at a table. He has on his Dr Pepper t-shirt and the dark blue jeans that Adam loves. He looks really amazing. Adam would much rather eat him than dinner, but probably that's frowned on by the owner of this place. They don't kiss hello, but the look Tommy gives Adam makes his chest tight, and when Adam sits down Tommy gropes his knees under the table. Eber isn't picking Adam up for six hours. They can kiss later.

"Lemme see your picture," Tommy says when he's done feeling up Adam's thighs.

Adam hates his picture. But he pulls his shiny new license out of his wallet and hands it over.

"Lip freckles!" Tommy says, like that's the best thing ever.

"Freckles everywhere," Adam complains.

"I like them," Tommy says, and looks at the license again before handing it back. "You look good."

As part of one of Danielle’s assignments for psychology class, Adam's working on accepting compliments, so he doesn't argue. Bonus, that makes Tommy smile.

"So, your present," Tommy says. "You don't have to have it, I can get you something else. But if you want it, it's across the street."

There are too many people between them and the window, and Adam didn't bother paying attention to what was across the street when he came in, so he's no wiser. "Okay," he says. "What is it?"

Tommy just nudges Adam's foot with his toes and gives him a mysterious smile. "It's a surprise."

Dinner is also a surprise―way healthier looking than Tommy's usual fast-food fare―but it's good, and Adam eats his whole salad, nuts and seeds and beets and all, and all the fries Tommy doesn't steal, even though he had cake like an hour ago. "Do I get my present now?" Adam asks when Tommy's chewing the last french fry.

"Only if you want it," Tommy says, and Adam wants to shake him and tell him to stop being so mysterious. And possibly kiss him while he's there, arms in Adam's hands already.

"Oh, you know I want it," Adam says instead, kicking Tommy's ankle, making him laugh.

When they get outside the first thing Adam sees across the street is a GoldExchange, but then he looks to the left and spies a neon sign that says BODY PIERCING/TATTOO, and that seems a more likely candidate for Tommy's patronage. Adam's stomach does a roller-coaster swoop. "Are we―" he says, envisioning a thousand things at once: needles pricking his skin leaving him covered in ink and bristling with metal, and his parents' faces, and Tommy holding his hand while Adam gets his name tattooed on his ass―

"Dude, breathe." Tommy hooks a finger around Adam's pinkie. "You're always touching my earrings, and, like, looking at them, and I thought maybe you'd want to get one. You don't have to though. We can―"

Adam's racing thoughts crystallize on a ring like Tommy's that Adam could reach up and touch any time he wanted to. "Hell yes I want to," he says.

It seems to take forever for the light to change, and Adam can't tear his eyes away from the neon sign, but he's holding Tommy's hand, and tracing the shape of Tommy's knuckles with his thumb, and that keeps him from wanting to just run across the street anyway, saying fuck LA drivers and the fact that they would never stop.

Just before the light turns green, Tommy squeezes his fingers, and when Adam turns to look, Tommy's gazing up at him, fond smile on his face. "You weren't just saying yes because you thought I wanted you to, were you," he says, not even a question. "What are you gonna get done?"

Oh, god. Choices. But before Adam can answer, they're running across the street, still holding hands, darting around a clump of girls in high heels and short skirts to get to the sidewalk on the other side. "Faggots!" one of them yells, and Tommy spins back to shout, "Jealous!" back at her, and Adam really can't believe this is his life.

"She just wishes her boyfriend gave as good of head as you," Tommy says, making the heat prickling Adam's face even worse. Tommy doesn't notice, though, too busy dragging Adam up the stairs to the piercing studio.

Despite the seedy looking entrance, the place itself is really clean, and the pierced and tattooed guy behind the counter smiles when he sees them, greets Tommy by name. "This is Adam," Tommy says. "He wants you to put some holes in him."

"My ear," Adam says, because this is the kind of place that puts holes anywhere you want, and Adam doesn't want to end up with an accidental cheek piercing or something.

"We can do ears," the guy says. His own earlobes have holes the size of Coke bottles in them. Adam turns his gaze back to the rings in Tommy's earlobes, thinking about that instead. "I'm James," the guy goes on. "You thinking one in each lobe?"

Tommy has three in his left and two in his right. But he's been talking about maybe getting his cartilage pierced, and Adam wonders what that might look like. "I'm not sure," he says.

"Whatever you want, so long as you don't want more than three," Tommy says. "That winning lottery ticket got sent to the wrong address."

Tommy always seems to have walking around money, and Adam's never asked where it comes from. He always figured allowance, like Adam gets. Now doesn't seem the right time to ask, so he just says, "I was thinking one hole to start with."

James gets out a book of pictures, and the three of them talk about the various places one can have his ear pierced. Even after James explains that lobes heal a lot faster and hurt a lot less, Adam decides to get the cartilage done. It looks cool, and the assholes at school are probably less likely to pick on him for it. Besides, when Adam suggests it, Tommy goes all shiny-eyed glow and says, "Awesome," reaching up to finger the curve of Adam's ear.

Decision made, Adam's left to fill out some paperwork while James gets the equipment ready. "You're going to come with me, right?" Adam says to Tommy when he gets to the part about 'normal' yellowish discharge.

"Hell, yes," Tommy says. Eagerly. Like he cannot wait to see someone sticking needles into his boyfriend.

"You're a little bit crazy," Adam says. Tommy just rolls his eyes.

Once they're sitting down, though, Adam on the bench, Tommy on a chair to his right so James can get to his left ear, Adam thinks Tommy's not so crazy after all. The smell of the cleaner James is using is sharp in his nostrils, and Tommy's hands are heavy on Adam's knee where they're knotted with his, and it feels like everyone is focused on Adam's ear. It's disconcerting and thrilling, and maybe kind of a turn on.

"Right?" Tommy says, like he can see what Adam's thinking.

"We're doing the left one, aren't we?" James asks, pausing in his cleaning efforts.

"Yeah," Adam and Tommy both say, looking at each other with a smile.

"Okay, about ready here." When James lets go of Adam's ear completely, it's cold, and Adam suppresses the shiver threatening his spine. Tommy squeezes his hand tighter.

"Okay," Adam says, not sure if he's reassuring Tommy or talking to James. With a mirror, they check again that it's going where Adam wants it, and then James gets his needle out. Or so Adam assumes by the way Tommy's eyes go big.

There's a pinch, James holding his ear steady, and then he says, "Okay, Adam, breathe for me."

Adam's surprised to realize that he needs to be told. He stares at Tommy and takes a deep breath in, trying not to tense up as he prepares for pain on his exhale. He's so focused on Tommy's face, and the feel of Tommy's hands on his, that it seems like Tommy's the one piercing him. The tension he's trying to avoid in his shoulders coils warm in his guts.

"Now," James says softly, and _ow!_ that fucking hurts, brings tears springing to Adam's eyes, but like when you pull a hair out by the root, not when you fall down and skin your knees. Tommy's breath catches, and he almost crushes Adam's fingers, and Adam never wants to do that again and he wants to do it a hundred more times right the fuck now.

"Dude," Tommy drawls. "Fuck."

Adam just sits as still as he can, hyper-aware that he's got a needle near his skull.

"Just going to put the jewelry in now."

Adam's whole ear is a hot throbbing ache, so he can't really tell what James is doing over there, but quicker than he expected, James is patting him on the shoulder, saying, "All done."

"Thanks," Adam says, brain looping on the porn stereotype of the whipped bottom saying, _Please, sir, may I have another._ He doesn't notice Tommy standing to plant a kiss on his lips until he's done it and jumped back again.

"No hanky-panky in my studio," James says, but he's smiling when he says it.

"Dude," Tommy says again. He puts his hands on Adam's shoulders and leans close to peer at his ear. "That is fucking hot."

Leaning back, hands still on Adam's shoulders, Tommy looks at James. "Can you―" he says, and then looks at Adam, "Do you mind if―" He fingers his own ear where Adam's is pierced. "Can we do me, too?"

All the good work Adam's been doing getting oxygen to his lungs is undone, and his heart and his dick lurch in tandem. Tommy reads the _oh my fucking god yes_ on Adam's face and turns back to James, says, "Do you have time?"

"I'm your man," James says, "but you gotta sign the forms again."

Adam seriously doesn't trust his legs to hold him, so he takes a second to wrap his arms around Tommy's waist and pull him between his knees for a hug before he tries getting off the bench and onto the chair. "You gonna do your left one, too?" he asks, whispering against Tommy's neck.

"That okay if we're matching?" Tommy pulls away to look Adam in the face.

"Definitely okay." Adam doesn't say that it's pretty much the best birthday present he's ever had.

Tommy lets Adam pull him back into a hug, rest their cheeks together, while James is getting Tommy's paperwork. "Thanks," Adam says. "This is much better than like, a CD or something."

"Like I was gonna get you a CD for your birthday." Tommy nips Adam's jaw, stepping back as James walks through the door. "This gonna hurt more or less than my lip?" he asks.

"Kissing'll be a whole lot less painful," James says, eyes on their linked hands. "Not too different, otherwise. It’ll hurt for longer."

Adam notes that he'll have to ask how long Tommy's lip hurt, because his ear is seriously throbbing. His legs feel steadier though, so he moves to the chair and lets Tommy take his place. It's weird watching James clean Tommy's ear, the smell just as sharp in Adam's nose, but only heat where he knows Tommy's feeling cold. Tommy's knee is pressed to Adam's chest, Adam holding it there with one hand while the other squeezes Tommy's fingers. When James gets the needle out, Adam isn't sure he can watch, but he can't look away. He finds himself breathing with Tommy, deep in and slow out, breath catching as the needle punches through, and he doesn't know if it's the breathing, or the way Tommy bites his lip, or watching Tommy get a ring in his ear that does it, but by the time James is putting the ball in place, Adam is beyond turned on into seriously horny.

Tommy recovers a lot more quickly than Adam did, and before Adam's done thinking about how looking at Tommy's ear now feels like looking in a mirror, Tommy's paying, and they're headed out into the street. "What'd'you want to do now?" Tommy asks once they're back on the sidewalk.

It's about 7:15, and that gives them ages until Eber is picking Adam up. "I want to make out with you for the next four hours. Starting now." Not that the middle of Melrose is the best place to make out.

"Hell yes," Tommy says. "Can you wait about ten minutes?"

Again with the cryptic, but that's worked out pretty well so far for Adam tonight, so he doesn't press further, just follows along as Tommy heads up the street.

Not quite ten minutes later, Tommy rings the bell on a pink stucco apartment building with big glass doors. "Another uncle?" Adam asks, Though he so would not care at this point if Tommy broke into a total stranger's house as long as there was a door to close and maybe a sofa. Or a floor. Carpet optional even.

"Sister's best friend. She's got a hot date tonight with her boyfriend at some house party in the hills, and she owes me for a favor. I had to promise not to drink any of her booze and no getting jizz on her couch, though."

"It's a little creepy you were talking to your sister's BFF about your jizz," Adam points out.

"Not as creepy as―"

The intercom crackles and a girl's voice says, "Tommy?"

"Sorry we're late," Tommy says, and the door buzzes, letting them in.

"As―" Adam prompts.

"As talking to my actual sister about jizz. Tara's cool. Her brother's gay, too. Older than her, though. Their parents don't speak to him anymore. She gets it."

It shouldn't come as a surprise to Adam to hear Tommy say he's gay, given everything they've done together, but somehow it does. Adam's only said the words out loud to Danielle, and that was scary as hell. Tommy says it so casually, like it's no big deal.

"Does your family know about me?" Adam asks while they wait for the elevator.

"Mom and Dad know we're hanging out again but not, like, what we do or whatever. I told Lisa last time she was home, though."

Adam cannot begin to imagine telling Neil, but Neil's thirteen, not in college.

"Do your parents know?" Tommy asks, letting Adam step into the elevator first, hitting the button for the seventh floor.

"Mom suspects," Adam says. "Or Danielle told her and she knows. It's hard to tell."

"She's not mad?"

"Not the kind of thing she'd be mad about. Still don't really want to talk about it with her." He's had all the sex talks with his parents that he can face.

"She still likes me though, right?" Tommy leans against the back of the elevator, so Adam has to turn his head to see him. He can't imagine why Tommy cares if Adam's parents like him, but he's pretty sure Tommy doesn't have to worry.

"She totally likes you. You kept me from falling off the stage and breaking my head at camp that time. Even if she finds out about the pot I don't think she'll forget you saving my life."

That gets a smile. "You weren't going to _die_ , but like, you did go a little overboard with the cartwheels."

Adam gets right up in Tommy's space, pressing him against the wall with his hips. "The scarecrow gets excited, okay?"

"The scarecrow, eh?" Tommy gropes Adam's definitely excited dick and pushes him off when the elevator dings, depositing them at their floor. "Keep your straw in your pants 'til Tara leaves."

Adam laughs despite himself. "Fuck you, straw."

Tommy sticks his tongue out, and knocks on a door. A tiny woman with jet-black hair cut in a bob, and thick liquid eyeliner accentuating the cat slant of her eyes opens it. Adam doesn't know much about shoe designers, but he wouldn't be surprised if her heels cost a few hundred dollars. He feels like an oaf standing in her doorway, like Tommy is man-sized and he's something else entirely.

"Adam, oh my god!" she says. "I think I babysat you and your brother when you were, like, nine or something. You're all grown up!" She hits Tommy in the shoulder. "Nice catch, squirt."

"I'm like six inches taller than you."

"You're also late. Remember the rules. There's Coke in the fridge. Oh, and happy birthday, Adam!"

"Thanks," Adam says, but he has to call it after her as she trots down the hall in a whirlwind of perfume.

Adam's still looking around bemused when Tommy launches himself at Adam's chest, knocking him against the door. There's a minute where Adam thinks they're both gonna go down, but he gets his feet planted and his arms around Tommy's back, and they're kissing, finally, Tommy sucking on Adam's tongue, whimpering, grinding against Adam's thigh, and Adam doesn't care where they are, there's a closed door and Tommy's here.

"God I fucking―" Tommy grabs Adam by the front of his shirt and drags him into the room, toward a grouping of furniture in front of a TV. "Fucking wanted to suck your cock so bad while James was putting that hole in you. What the fuck."

"I―"

"I didn't even know that was gonna happen."

"Me too," Adam says, tripping on the edge of the rug, grabbing onto Tommy's shoulders to catch himself. "It was―"

"Fuck. I want to get your clothes off. No jizz on the sofa, no jizz on the carpet." Tommy looks around wildly.

"I don't think we can fool around in Tara's bed," Adam says, though he would if Tommy nixed everywhere else.

"I don't wanna just rub you off in your jeans. And I still fucking suck at swallowing sometimes."

"Shower?" Adam asks before he really thinks about it. Showering seems like a big step. He still hasn't really _seen_ Tommy naked, not in good lighting. Definitely not all wet, slippery― "Shower," Adam says.

"Fuck. Yeah." Tommy starts pulling off his shirt as he heads for an archway that Adam presumes leads to the bathroom.

Walking while trying to take off your shoes and jeans at the same time turns out to be dangerous, and Adam nearly takes a whole row of pictures off the wall when he stumbles―he'll have to remember to straighten them up later―so he goes for his shirt instead, and by the time he gets to the bathroom he's in his socks and boxers with his jeans half-way down his thighs.

Tommy, on the other hand, has managed to undress completely. He's facing mostly away from the door, reaching for the shower, but is angled toward the giant old-hollywood mirror, lightbulbs blazing all around his reflection. Adam stops dead, breath freezing in his lungs, mouth going dry. Tommy is fucking _amazing_. He's all narrow angles; he'd probably say skinny, but all Adam can think about is how his hands would fit around him.

With the water adjusted to his satisfaction, Tommy turns around, and Adam hasn't moved. Side on to the mirror, Tommy's dick casts a shadow over his hipbone, and Adam needs to be touching him right the hell now, so he crowds forward, backing Tommy right up to the edge of the shower stall.

"Are you gonna―" Tommy says, trying not to trip on the lip or bang his elbow on the glass.

"Suck you," Adam answers.

"Get naked," Tommy finishes. "Your dad'll wonder why the wet clothes." He laughs when Adam starts shoving at his boxers, stepping on the toes of his socks to get them off.

"You could help," Adam says, though he's really not sure how.

"I'm providing incentive," Tommy says, squeezing his dick before stepping under the shower's spray. With a final twist, Adam kicks off the rest of his clothes and joins him.

The downside of blowing someone in the shower is that tile is really not comfortable on your knees. And there's a high risk of water running down into your nose, which makes it really hard to breathe when your mouth is full. Adam lasts about fifteen seconds and then he's up again, sucking Tommy's tongue instead, crowding him against the wall, palming his junk.

"Nggh!" Tommy says when his back hits the tile―it must be cold, because Adam seriously didn't put him there that hard.

"Sorry," Adam mumbles against his mouth, but he doesn't let him up. He's got Tommy's dick in his hand now, jacking it right up near the head like Tommy likes, and he doesn't want to stop.

"Hogging the hot water," Tommy mumbles between nipping at Adam's lips, and it's true, he is. With pretty impressive coordination, if he does say so himself, Adam gets them turned around so Tommy's got his back in the spray and Adam's up against the wall, legs spread wide so he can get Tommy's dick level with his and rub them together. The groan of pleasure Tommy lets out makes Adam groan right back.

Tommy gets his hand in there too, and it's all a tangle of fingers and palms and hips and cocks for a minute and then Tommy says, "Fuck it," and pulls out of Adam's grip, sinks to his knees.

"That's―" Adam starts to warn him, but the spray's still on Tommy's back so nothing is running into his face, and he doesn't seem to mind the hard tile if the enthusiasm with which he's going at Adam's dick is any indication, and this mouth feels _really_ fucking good, so Adam gives up on words.

And, like, rational thought.

When he comes, he hits his head on the wall, and it jars his ear which really fucking hurts, and he yelps which makes Tommy jump back and get a shot of jizz in the face. Adam tries really hard not to laugh, and fails completely.

"Mother fucker!" Tommy says, pulling himself up with fingers digging into Adam's hips. "How do you make swallowing look so easy?"

He's not sure he does, though he's never coughed jizz on Tommy's lap or caught a shot in the eye, which is something. "You usually warn me before you come?" he says, and he's manhandling Tommy back against the wall again, thinking that if he's not drowning he can probably put up with sore knees.

Not that it takes Tommy long. Because he can, Adam pulls off when Tommy starts coming, and jerks him so he comes down Adam's neck and chest. When Tommy opens his eyes, they go comically wide, and Adam starts laughing again, laughing even harder when he makes Tommy squeak by pulling him close and smearing the mess between them.

"You're crazy!" Tommy says, batting at Adam's shoulders, but he's wiggling his hips to help and starting to laugh too, so Adam ignores him.

The smearing and wriggling becomes a slow, sticky grinding, and their laughter peters out into heavy breathing, Tommy clinging to Adam's neck, Adam trailing kisses down Tommy's cheekbones and nuzzling under his chin, lapping at the beads of water and sweat he finds.

"This is the best birthday ever," he murmurs when even their grinding has slowed to a stop.

"I don't know," Tommy says, teasing drawl. "That one at Disneyland when you turned ten was pretty awesome."

It hits Adam that it's weird, in a really fantastic way, that Tommy was there to see him cry when his brother puked on him on the teacups, and still wants to be here with him now, naked, and stuck to him with spunk. "I did get a pair of Mickey Mouse sweats," Adam says. Then, feeling a little reckless, "I'd rather have you, though." That gets him a bite to his collar bone, and Tommy's grin pressed to his chest.  


* * *

  
Adam figures because Tommy gave him such an amazing birthday, he'd better do something awesome for Valentine's Day. Then he figures that Valentine's Day is maybe too cheesy, and Tommy will think he's stupid if he makes a big deal out of it.

"Oh my god," Danielle says, when he explains his dilemma while they’re trying to do their homework on a half day early in February. "Just ask him what he wants to do."

"That ruins the surprise, though," Adam complains.

“So instead you both plan some Valentine date and one of you has to be disappointed because you can’t do both things?”

Adam is about ninety percent sure that Tommy is not planning on anything for Valentine's day. It’s just not his scene. But he should maybe listen to Danielle just in case. He lets Danielle get back to her psych essay and ignores his history book in favor of the internet.

The trouble is that Valentine's Day doesn’t seem to be geared towards pairs of teenage boys. (Not that most of the girls he knows would be interested in the things the ads and the websites are suggesting, but they definitely aren’t for Tommy.) Adam’s not buying diamonds or roses, and Tommy’s not really that into chocolate. Adam would be cool with about a hundred more matching piercings, but he doesn’t want to steal Tommy’s birthday idea. They’re not old enough to get tattoos. Which kind of leaves dinner. And maybe a necklace or a bracelet or something. Adam wonders if he remembers how to make friendship bracelets still. But he hasn’t seen Tommy wearing anything on his wrists since junior high, so probably a necklace would be better.

“What do you think of this?” he asks, angling his laptop screen toward Dani. He’s found a silver pendant with an eye on it, hanging from a black cord.

“It makes you look like a stalker. Why don’t you get him these?” Danielle tips her own screen his direction to show him something called Bedroom Dice. There’s a woman wearing underwear and high heels on the package.

“I don’t even want to know what those are,” Adam says. “I’m not getting him sex toys. That’s creepy.”

“Creepier than an eye to hang around his neck?”

Much creepier, but Adam doesn’t feel like arguing. It’s not like he was super attached to the idea of that particular pendant. He clicks past a wolf’s head and a pentagram. Danielle says, “Don’t get him something that looks like it came from Hot Topic.” And that’s an idea. The place Tommy likes to buy old band shirts had some pretty cool jewelry.

“You’re a genius,” he says. “Wanna go to Silver Lake?”

With Danielle, shopping trumps homework every single time. She ditches her essay and calls her cousin Marisa to see if she’ll take them shopping. She’s got a client meeting―she’s a wardrobe consultant, which as far as Adam can tell means she gets paid to go to people’s houses and tell them their clothes are ugly―but the client lives in Los Feliz, so Marisa will drop them off on her way and pick them up when she gets done. Adam even has time to finish his history chapter before she gets there to pick them up. It’s, like, perfect.

The first store they go in has about twenty pairs of platform shoes that Danielle can’t keep away from, but the jewelry selection sucks. Adam has to literally pry a pair of lucite disco shoes with rainbow stacked heels out of Danielle’s hands. Even though they’re over a hundred dollars, he might have let her get them, except that they’re two full sizes too small and her toes hang off the ends. “Marisa would kill you. And then me,” he says, putting them back on the shelf and bodily standing between her and the shoes. “Come on. I’ll buy you some coffee.”

A chai latte mollifies her enough that she doesn’t complain when he walks her past the store with the shoes again to get to the shop where Tommy found his vintage Hendrix poster. She loses herself in a rack of coats, and Adam heads for the display counters at the back. The case of pipes catches his eye, but Danielle would have questions he doesn’t want to answer, and if Tommy’s parents found drug paraphernalia in his room he’d probably be in even more trouble than he got for the booze, so he moves past that, and the case of ashtrays and letter openers, to the ones with rings and necklaces.

“Looking for something for your girlfriend?” the woman behind the counter asks when she spots him. She’s probably Marisa’s age―28 or so―and dressed to kill. She looks like she has lots of opinions on what girls like their boyfriends to buy for them.

“No,” Adam answers, glancing over at Danielle, trying not to turn pink. He feels weird telling the woman he’s shopping for his boyfriend, and it doesn’t occur to him to say he’s looking for something for himself.

But then an older guy in black jeans and a tight black t-shirt interrupts them. “I’ll help him, Sandy. That woman you were showing the poodle skirts to needs something.” When she walks away toward the dressing rooms, the man gives Adam a broad smile. “You look like you’re after something more rock-and-roll than Audrey Hepburn.”

Adam isn’t sure if it’s his black hair or his Queen tee, but he’s grateful. He’s pretty sure no one has ever thought he was rock-and-roll before. Except then the man winks and adds, “Have you got a boyfriend already, or are you hoping to catch someone with your choice?” and Adam realizes the guy thinks he’s gay.

Or, knows he’s gay. Because it’s not like he’s wrong.

“Dani?” Adam calls, hoping his voice doesn’t sound as panicked as he feels. It’s not a big deal. The guy doesn’t sound like an asshole, or really like a creep, and it’s not like he’s pressing Adam’s blown kisses to his dick or anything. He just wants to help Adam get the present that he wants. Nothing to freak out about.

“D’you find something?” Danielle asks from over his left shoulder, and Adam relaxes a fraction. “I can’t even tell you the junk he was looking at on line.” Danielle gives the shop guy her teacher’s pet smile. “I bet you can find him something perfect.”

“I hope so,” the guy replies, but he’s smiling at Adam when he says it.

Okay. Really not a big deal. “Already have a boyfriend,” Adam almost whispers, ignoring the funny look Danielle’s giving him. It’s not quite her _are you kidding me_ look, but it’s close.

“Lucky guy,” the man says, and starts getting trays out of the case.

It doesn’t take them long to find a medium length necklace of small black beads with three slightly larger hematite beads opposite the clasp. It’s actually less expensive than the pendants Adam had been looking at, and he likes it a lot better. Danielle gives two thumbs up of approval, and store guy not only has a plain black box made specially for necklaces, but is willing to wrap it in silver paper for no extra charge. Adam feels sillier and sillier for having been scared of him.

“What the hell was your deal in there?” Danielle demands as soon as they get outside and the door shuts behind them.

“Nothing,” Adam tries, even though he knows it’s futile.

“Was he like a creeper or something before I got there? Do I need to kick his ass? Because I will totally kick his ass if he was hitting on you in a sleezy way or anything.”

“No!” Adam says. “No. He wasn’t― He just, like, assumed I was gay. And I―“ Adam doesn’t know how to explain.

“And you totally are, so that’s a problem because…” Danielle shoves him. “Even if you weren’t, what’s wrong with being gay? Are you a secret homophobe?”

“What?” Adam shoves her back, but it’s pretty half-hearted because he’s distracted by the whole _why would she even think that_ thing. People get beat up for being gay. They get _killed_. And excuse him if he doesn’t want to be one of those people.

“Why do you care if some old gay dude knows you swing from his side of the plate?”

“I swing from― Have you been watching that weird 90s gay softball movie you tried to show me again?”

“Timothy Olyphant. _And_ Dean Cain. And Zach Braff. Don’t try to tell me you don’t watch _Scrubs_ marathons when they’re on. How many times do I have to tell you it’s not about you, it’s about all the hot dudes?”

“How was I supposed to know he was gay? He might have been a gay basher or something.”

Danielle gives him the full-on _are you kidding me_ look not tempered for company. “Adam, honey, we’re at a vintage store in Silver Lake. And you did look at him, right?” She checks the traffic before pulling him out into the street by the wrist, heading back toward the coffee shop where they’re meeting Marisa. “Maybe you’re the one who should be watching more gay movies. He was practically out of central casting.”

“Whatever. Why do I need movies? I’d rather be having gay sex with my gay boyfriend.”

One day Danielle’s going to hurt something rolling her eyes like that.

 

Adam’s mom lets him take her car to Burbank on Saturday if he promises to be home by ten. He wants to take Tommy his necklace right away, but he managed to get a reservation at an Argentine restaurant Yelp assures him is romantic for Tuesday night, so he’s going to wait for actual Valentine's day like an adult. He can’t stop thinking about seeing Tommy with a necklace Adam gave him around his neck, though. He really hopes Tommy likes it.

“I mean it, Adam. Home by ten. I don’t want you driving through LA on a Saturday night when people are moving from the bars to the clubs.”

“Okay, Mom. Okay.” Adam kisses his mother’s cheek as he takes the keys she’s dangling off one finger. “I promise.” Tommy’s parents are gonna be home anyway, so it’s not that likely he’ll get too distracted to leave on time.

The advantage of Tommy’s parents having no idea Tommy and Adam are dating is that they don’t forbid them to shut Tommy’s bedroom door. But his mom is doing laundry so she keeps coming in without knocking to pick up dirty clothes or drop off clean ones, and then to ask what they want for lunch, do they want a drink, or a snack. And then Tommy’s dad starts in, calling up to see if they want to come downstairs and watch Animal Planet, it’s about big cats― and Tommy rolls his eyes, but Adam says, “Might as well,” because, seriously, it’s got to be easier to not grab his boyfriend and shove his tongue in his mouth if there isn’t even any pretense that they’re alone. Besides. Tigers are awesome.

“Sorry,” Tommy says, putting down the guitar he’s been clutching since the last time his mom came in unannounced bearing a bowl of popcorn and a pressed dress shirt Adam can’t imagine Tommy wearing. “I was hoping they’d at least run some errands or something.”

“It’s cool,” Adam says. “I like just hanging out with you.”

“‘Cause I’m just that awesome,” Tommy says like he means the opposite, but he’s smiling like Adam handed him the keys to his own car, and it makes Adam’s heart lurch.

They make it downstairs just in time to catch a female lion dragging a―maybe gazelle―carcass back to her family, and Tommy’s dad saying, “You missed the kill,” like he’s certain they’re going to be crushed with disappointment.

“They’ll show another one, I’m sure,” Tommy says, nudging his Dad’s knee with his own as he walks past to take his spot on the ottoman, leaving the armchair for Adam like they’re ten years old again.

It’s hard to keep his hands to himself with Tommy right there, shoulder nudging Adam’s knee where it’s tucked up against the overstuffed arm Tommy’s using as a backrest, but he has a good view of not only the TV but Tommy’s parents, and between the commentary about lions killing all the cubs when they take over a pride and Tommy’s dad looking all dad-like out of the corner of his eye, Adam manages to resist his inappropriate urges.

“Are you staying for dinner, sweetie?” Mrs. Ratliff says once they’ve all learned everything there is to know about the mating habits of the African lion―and jeeze that wasn’t embarrassing at all.

“Yes,” Tommy answers for him. “We’re just going to go to the park for a little bit first. Back in time to set the table, promise.”

“Um, yes. Thank you,” Adam adds as Tommy drags him toward the front door, death grip on his elbow.

“Have fun, boys,” Mrs. Ratliff calls as they grab their coats and run out the front door.

“The fuck?” Adam asks.

“I was not going to sit there listening to my dad dissect the finer points of lion fucking while mom cooked dinner. We’re gonna make out behind Mrs. Ferrigut’s box hedge.”

“We are?”

Tommy’s still dragging him along, man with a serious mission. “We are. It hasn’t rained in days; there won’t be any mud.”

It rained like Wednesday, but that might have just been out by the ocean. Besides. Making out. And if there’s mud in the bushes, there’s probably mud at the park, and they can say they were wrestling. Or maybe playing tag. That might sound less suspicious.

Tommy shoves Adam through the gap between the hedge and the high fence around Mrs. Ferrigut’s yard, following behind him. When Adam still lived here, Mrs. Ferrigut’s son parked his motorcycle in the space and kept the hedge neatly trimmed so there was room. But he’s gotta be like thirty-five now, probably has his own house to keep his bike at, or maybe he has a car and kids or something. Overgrown, the gap’s a pretty good hiding space. They obviously aren’t the only ones who think so, because there’re even a couple flattened cardboard boxes to sit on, cigarette butts ground into the dirt around their edges.

“Maybe we shouldn’t be here,” Adam says, trying to back out again when he sees this is obviously someone’s spot.

“It’s cool,” Tommy says, not halting his forward motion. “Those’r mine.”

Adam’s going to ask why Tommy’s hanging out in his neighbor’s bushes when he has a perfectly good house just up the street, but Tommy pushes him down and climbs on top of him, his dick―his really hard dick―pressing into Adam’s stomach, and questions seem totally beside the point.

They’ve for sure made out more comfortable places than a couple of boxes under some bushes, but they’ve made out less comfortable places, too, and Adam doesn’t really care. His sweater and jacket mostly isolate him from the cold seeping through the cardboard, and Tommy’s warm on top of him if he ignores the cold fingers creeping under his shirt, and when Tommy gets like this, so desperate for Adam’s kisses, it warms something up inside of him that nothing else touches.

“D’you want?” Adam runs his hands down Tommy’s side, angling his fingers in as he reaches his hip, trying to squeeze between them, get at Tommy’s fly.

“S’okay. Just―“ Tommy moves Adam’s hand to his ass, slows his frantic humping to a dirty grind, and starts going at Adam’s lips with teasing brushes of his tongue instead of the sucking bites from a minute ago.

They make out to the sound of the wind rustling in the leaves and the odd car driving past, the sky above them going pink, Adam getting hotter and Tommy cooling down until they meet somewhere in the middle.

“What brought that on?” Adam says when Tommy stops kissing him to nuzzle under his jaw.

Instead of answering, Tommy pulls Adam’s collar down so he can get to skin that’s okay to mark, and starts sucking gently. Adam lets him, liking how it feels, liking knowing that Tommy wants to do it, but he still prods, “Tommy?”

“Like―“ He straightens Adam’s collar, patting it into place, and pillows his head on Adam’s neck. “You were just sitting on my bed all day, like, _sitting_ there, and I couldn’t even kiss you or my mom would have caught us, and then we were watching those lions fucking and your knee was so hot, and if I’d just turned I could have curled up between your legs and sucked your dick, but I couldn’t even hold your fucking hand, because if my mom― She―“ Tommy bites him, a sharp nip that makes Adam jump and his hands grip too tight around Tommy’s waist. “Sorry,” Tommy says, soothing it with his tongue.

When he doesn’t go on, Adam kisses the top of his head, squeezes him again, more gently this time, whispers, “She wouldn’t like me anymore?”

“She wouldn’t understand. Neither of them. Love the sinner, hate the sin.”

There’s nothing Adam can say to that. He doesn’t think that much about church, but he remembers one of the last times he saw Tommy before that weird first kiss at his thirteenth birthday party. It was the summer they were eleven, and between Adam’s mom getting more party jobs and Tommy’s mom sending him to church camp instead of Camp Crescendo where they’d been going together since they were seven, they hadn’t seen each other in months. Adam had been in the front yard for almost an hour―banished from the living room where he was driving his mother crazy―when Mrs. Ratliff’s car finally pulled up, and he nearly tackled Tommy against the side of the car he was so happy to see him.

“Woah,” Tommy had said. “Hey.” He didn’t really hug Adam back, which was weird.

Mrs. Ratliff didn’t get out of the car, which was also weird, just said goodbye through the window before she drove off.

A little warily, Adam said, “Mom made cookies. Snickerdoodles. How was camp?”

“Camp was stupid.” Tommy told him, looking down at the tangle of friendship bracelets on his wrist, picking at a red and black one Adam hadn’t remembered seeing before. “How was music camp?”

Instead of telling Tommy about how he got to sing four songs in the final showcase, Adam said, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” Finally, Tommy gave Adam a half smile. “Do you have any Fritos? Fritos go awesome with snickerdoodles.”

They'd headed for the kitchen where Adam’s mom unearthed a bag of cool ranch Doritos left over from their fourth of July party and gave it to them with a baggie of cookies and a couple Capri Suns before shooing them back outside. “We can hang in the treehouse,” Adam said when Tommy looked kind of longingly at the sliding glass door to the air conditioned living room with its stereo and the Playstation. “It’s usually pretty cool up there.” He shoved the Capri Suns in his pockets, gripped the chips and cookies in his left hand, and let Tommy climb the ladder first, following awkwardly behind, trying not to drop anything.

Technically, the treehouse was Neil’s. He was the one who begged for it as soon as he saw the big old cherry tree in the backyard, was the one who held pieces of wood and passed tools up to their dad and the guy next door while they built it. But he was at his friend’s house that day, and besides, Adam was tired of having to share everything with his little brother, thought Neil should have to share too. When Adam poked his head through the ladder hole, Tommy had been kneeling on the floor looking at Neil’s hand-lettered sign―which he’d run through their dad’s laminator without even asking―that said, “NO SINGING ALOUED!!” He was still learning his letters when he made it, and Adam was never sure if he forgot the second hump of the W or got confused between aloud and allowed, but he made a point of flouting the sign’s directive at every opportunity back in those days, and had started singing, “Ground control to Major Tom, commencing count―“

Before he could finish the line, Tommy laughed, saying, “Neil’s handiwork?”

Delighted Tommy was acting more like himself, Adam dropped the chips and cookies near Tommy’s knees and hoisted himself the rest of the way up.

They’d picnicked on the rug made from carpet scraps glued onto a tarp, and Adam answered all Tommy’s questions about who was at camp and what shows they did, while Tommy ignored all Adam’s attempts to get any similar information out of him. When the food was gone, Adam lay back on the beanbag chair and tugged Tommy down next to him by the wrist, keeping hold of it so he could point to his various bracelets and ask who made them.

As he'd picked through them, Adam was pleased to see Tommy was still wearing the black-and-gray one Adam made him at camp the previous year, and the shades-of-blue one Adam gave him when he moved, and even the crappy, red-white-and-blue one that was Adam’s first ever attempt at bracelet making. The rainbow one was from Angela who played Dorothy when they did Wizard of Oz the summer before, and Adam’s pretty sure Tommy made the all-black one himself. But there was a green, white, and yellow one he’d never seen before, and the red-and-black Tommy was picking at, and one in different shades of purple in the same pattern as the blue one from Adam.

“Camp or school?” Adam asked, hooking a finger under the green bracelet which was the oldest looking of the new ones.

“School,” Tommy said, and when he didn’t elaborate, Adam shook his arm by his grip on the string. “Fine,” Tommy said, elbowing Adam in the side a little. “Josie. Sat behind me in math. Saw the Mario Kart sticker on my folder, decided we were soul mates or something, and made it for me.”

“Mario Kart rocks. What about this one?” Adam touched the purple bracelet.

“The craft counselor did that. He was showing one of the other guys how to do the herringbone pattern cause he liked the one you made.”

It had taken Adam almost a week to make it, and he was pretty proud of how it came out. Now he couldn’t help smiling that it caught someone else’s attention. “How bout this?” Adam wrapped his fingers around Tommy’s arm and rubbed the black-and-red knots with his thumb.

Tommy didn’t say anything for ages, lying stiffly next to Adam on the beanbag, their shoulders barely touching and Adam’s hand on his wrist their only other point of contact. Adam felt weird, and wasn’t sure if he should let go or not. When they were little, he and Tommy had pushed and shoved for the best spot on the couch and sat half on top of each other to watch cartoons and stuff, and it was never a big deal, but maybe they were grown up now and not supposed to do that? Only Adam didn’t want Tommy to think he was mad or anything, either. Adam was still trying to decide what to do when Tommy moved his hand away, but sort of snuggled closer with his shoulder.

“Remember how Zach had that Batman comic at camp last summer?” he said, quiet.

“Yeah?” Zach had been in Tommy’s cabin, had the top bunk above him, and the three of them had hung out a lot that year. The year Tommy went to church camp Zach had started learning drums, and Adam hadn’t seen him as much.

From his vantage point on the beanbag, Adam could see Tommy was playing with his bracelets again. “You know how when your cabin counselor came to find us to tell us free time was over and we had to go to afternoon activities, and we were all lying on Zach’s bed so we could see the pages, and you kind of had your head on his arm and I kind of had mine on your chest, and Ed laughed and said that was one of his favorite issues, but it would still be there after dinner and it was time to go?”

Adam had no idea where Tommy’d been going with that, but he nodded, and said, “Mmm hmm,” when he realized that Tommy wasn’t even looking at him.

“That’s not how it was at this camp.”

Suddenly picturing like, _Friday the Thirteenth_ or something, Adam asked, “No comics allowed?”

“Comics were okay, just they were weird about, like―“ Taking a deep, shuddery breath Tommy flicked a glance at Adam then went back to looking at his hands. “My bunkmate, Jon, brought, like, I don’t know. This awesome comic book, like a real hardback book, and we were on his bed just looking at it, and he was telling me about the characters and stuff, because it wasn’t normal like Batman or X-Men or anything, there were like these kids at a school and a ghost, and our counselor came in and he was really mad.”

“Because of the ghost?” Adam knew even less then than he knows now about being Catholic, but he knew the Holy Ghost is this big deal, and figured they didn’t like you to read about other kinds of ghosts.

“Because we were on Jon’s bed.”

Adam didn’t get it. He’d only been to music camp, but in his experience, at camp your choices of places to hang out during free time were pretty much the bed or the steps outside your cabin. And the steps weren’t very comfortable. “Why?” he’d asked.

“Boys aren’t supposed to share beds.” The way Tommy said it reminded Adam of how his mom would tell Neil that he was never ever ever to go out in the street without holding someone’s hand when Neil was little.

“But you were just reading?”

“Every day from then ’til the end of camp, we had to go to the deacon’s office during free time and kneel on the floor and ask forgiveness and say prayers and stuff and then listen to lectures about being real men and serving the church by getting married and giving our wives the gift of children. It fucking _sucked_.”

Adam hadn’t gotten it then, that the counselor and the deacon thought Tommy and Jon were doing something dirty, not just being kids. He’d thought they were eating in their bunks or something. Now he can’t really imagine having Tommy in bed next to him and not wanting to touch him.

“I made reservations for Tuesday night,” he says, wanting to give Tommy (and himself, if he’s honest) something happier to think about than his parents’ religious enthusiasms. “Valentine's Day. I know it’s cheesy or whatever, but it was really nice what you did for my birthday, and I missed your birthday, so.” Tommy’s head shifts and then his chin digs in just under Adam’s collar bone. “Only if you want,” Adam adds. He should have said that part first. Tommy’s a little too close to focus on clearly, but Adam tries.

“Really? You want to take me out to dinner?”

Lifting his head, Adam pecks the tip of Tommy’s nose. “It’s not too fancy, like you don’t have to wear a tie, but it’s a little nice. Is that okay?”

“Mom just ironed my nice shirt,” Tommy says, prodding Adam’s chin with his. Adam still can’t really see him in a dress shirt, but maybe he’d like to.

“Yeah. Okay. You could wear that. But still jeans if you want. I like those black ones.” They’d look good with the necklace.

“Sneaky,” Tommy says, and he looks happy again; the worried frown gone from his forehead. “You got reservations. On Valentine's day.”

“It’s getting dark, speaking of dinner.”

“Shit.” Tommy wiggles until he can get his knees underneath him and stand up, then pulls Adam to his feet. “I wish it wasn’t a school night. Then maybe we could get a motel room, say I’m spending the night at yours and you’re spending the night at mine, and we could…”

“A motel?” There’s enough wind Adam can blame the shiver that jolts his spine on that, but it’s the thought of spending a whole night with Tommy. They haven’t done that since that first night with the pizza, and that wasn’t exactly—well—planned, or comfortable, or filled with the kind of amazing sex they’d probably have now if they got a whole night to themselves. “Do you think we’d get away with that?”

“Definitely not on a Tuesday in the middle of February,” Tommy says, tiptoeing up for a last peck to Adam’s lips before heading back to the sidewalk and home. “But if we save up, maybe we can do it soon.

 

In a just world, Adam would be able to borrow a car and go pick Tommy up for their date, but instead he lives in a world with probationary license laws and parents who are apparently evil, so he has to take the bus. He’s been trying not to make his parents too suspicious that Tuesday is any more special than any other night, but Monday he makes the mistake of saying one too many times in front of them that he thinks it’s stupid he can’t drive after eleven, which makes his dad get out his phone at the dinner table and start reading aloud from a website of statistics about teenage car deaths.

“I know all this,” Adam tries to interrupt him. “I did take drivers’ ed.”

Neil starts reciting a list of states and capitals aloud in alphabetical order, which is his new trick whenever Eber tries to lecture them. Mostly they all ignore him, but tonight Adam’s grateful for the help.

“Never mind!” Adam says when Eber raises his voice to be heard over Neil’s drone when he gets to the part about deaths due to texting and driving. “I never want to drive again!”

“Perfect,” Eber says, sharing a smile with his wife.

“I hate you both,” Adam reminds them, but they don’t seem to care. The incident definitely puts the kibosh on Adam coming up with a last-minute reason he needs to borrow one of the cars though.

On the plus side, one of Neil’s friends is having a Valentine's Day card party (which Adam at first thought meant they were going to sit around and exchange valentines cards like they used to do in elementary school, but which turned out to be where they are gonna play, like, gin rummy or hearts or whatever), and Eber and Leila have a date of their own which they’re going to straight from dropping Neil off, so Adam has the house to himself while he gets ready, and no one is there to ask why he’s dressing up to just go to a movie with a friend, which is his not very inspired cover story.

The reservation is for seven, and Adam meets Tommy outside the restaurant just before that. He looks amazing in his dress shirt with the collar open, skinny black jeans and a pair of black, suedey shoes Adam hasn’t seen before. He’s got just a hint of makeup on, no lipstick or anything, just enough so his eyes pop even with his hair falling softly over his face. Adam wants to grab all the couples walking past in the street, say, “He’s _mine_ , look at him, and he wants to be here with _me_.” Instead he hugs him, tells him he looks great, and asks if he’s hungry. It’s not exactly Adam’s smoothest moment, but he has all night to do better.

It hadn’t really occurred to Adam that going to a nice restaurant in downtown LA on Valentine's Day would mean that not only would he and Tommy be the only teenagers there, but the only guys there without female dates. He maybe should have picked something in West Hollywood, or something a little more casual. With a haughty sneer, the hostess leads them right to the back, past cozy tables with candles and roses and people lost in each other’s eyes. Except the ones who stare at the boys with their dyed hair and eyeliner who dared impose. Adam can see Tommy bristling at the attention in the way he goes all languid-slinky swagger to compensate. Adam’s own walk stiffens and his shoulders tense, and he envies the way Tommy has of looking like he doesn’t care, even while a part of him likes that they’ve spent enough time together for Adam to see that actually he does.

They end up right by the door to the kitchen, the single straggly potted palm at Adam’s back a totally ineffective screen from the noise and the bustle, but Adam’s determined to make the best of it, and he smiles brightly at the hostess as she hands them their menus. “Sorry,” he says to Tommy once she leaves, “you picked a much better place for my birthday.”

“It’s cool,” Tommy says. “Not your fault these losers think you have to be engaged or whatever to have some dinner on February fourteenth.” He makes a show of looking at the menu. “And the food looks good.”

The food does look good. Although the website hadn’t mentioned that there was some kind of love tax happening on Valentine's night. Adam’s glad he hasn’t actually spent any of his birthday money yet so his bank account is flush enough to handle it.

Their waitress is a lot less aloof than the hostess had been―complimenting them both on their outfits, saying they look sharp as she takes their orders, offering them virgin cocktails without sounding condescending―and it makes Tommy less slouchy and Adam less ramrod straight. While they’re waiting for their appetizer, unable to wait anymore, Adam gets out the necklace he’d brought in his jacket pocket wrapped in its silver paper. He doesn’t expect it to be greeted with a look of alarm.

“You didn’t say we were doing presents,” Tommy says.

“Because it’s not so much an exchange. But I missed your birthday, and you were away at Christmas, and I love my earring a lot, so I wanted― It’s just something I wanted to get for you.”

Still looking skeptical, but not quite so much like Adam’s trying to trick him, Tommy reaches for the present. “You don’t, like, owe me or anything.”

Which, Adam knows that. It’s not about owing. It’s about― “Just open it. If you don’t like it, you don’t have to keep it.”

Adam can see from Tommy’s face that he likes it, though. It’s not quite the look that he gets when he looks at his favorite guitar in the music shop on Sunset, but it equals the one he has when he beats Adam at Mario Kart. “It’s awesome,” he says, turning it in the light of the candle before fumbling with the catch so he can put it on. “Goes with the whole look I’ve got going here.” It falls just where Adam hoped it would, all three hematite beads underlining the notch in his throat and the shape of his collar bones. It’s really hard not to go around the table and lick his neck, feel the cool of the glass against the warm of his skin. But Adam just returns Tommy’s smile.

“I was out shopping and I saw it and I thought you’d like it.” Adam figures that sounds better than the whole _I really wanted to see you with my jewelry around your neck_ thing. Casual is more Tommy’s speed. And Adam is still a little worried about what Danielle said about the eye pendant seeming stalkery.

Their food comes then, and their waitress, seeing the wrapping, asks to see what was in it. “This,” Tommy says, lifting the necklace a little so she can look. “It’s like a really late birthday present.”

“Sort of,” Adam says, because that’s not really what he meant, but she’s saying, “happy birthday,” and putting down their plates, clearing away the wrapping, and the moment’s over.

The food is even more delicious than it looked on the menu, and Tommy tells Adam about the new song he’s writing, and they make plans for Tommy to come to Adam’s spring concert, and after a rocky start have a really good time. Over strong South American coffee―which Tommy seems to like, but Adam wishes were a little less bitter―Adam says, “I’m glad you asked me out for pizza last summer.”

That gets Tommy’s coy, lip-ring tug, glance-through-his-eyelashes routine, and then a wink. “Me too,” he says.

And yeah, Adam is glad about all the sex and making out, but he really likes having Tommy’s friendship back, too. “Why then? Why not the year before, or next year?”

“I saw that flier for when you did _The Music Man_.”

The photo shoot for that had taken forever, and Adam still hated the way it came out. Of all the things to make Tommy want to call him again.

“You had your arm around that other boy, and I don’t know, the way you were looking at him.” Tommy nudges Adam’s foot with his toe under the table. “It reminded me of how you are. How it was when we were friends. And I don’t know― Maybe you ran away when I kissed you or whatever, but it wasn’t like you hit me or called me names.”

“Of course not. I wouldn’t ever hit you.”

“See?”

“I hated that kid in the poster with me, though. He used to pinch me when no one was looking. During the shoot, at rehearsal, god. He was such a dick.”

Tommy gives him a what-the-fuck look. “You’re a good actor, then. It totally looked like you guys were friends. Mom still had your number in her address book, so I thought I’d call.”

“And here we are, six months later,” Adam says, raising his glass for a toast. Not that it’s exactly their six-month anniversary or anything, with all the time Tommy didn’t call him and stuff, but six months ago Adam never would have said they’d be here, so he’s going to celebrate what he can.

“And here we are,” Tommy agrees, letting his glass clink off Adam’s.  


* * *

  
Adam cannot imagine why anyone would hold a tech conference in Chicago, in March, but they are, and his dad is going and taking his mom, and Neil is spending the week with Stephen, but Adam gets to stay alone. He is not allowed to use the car, and he's not allowed to have any parties, and he has to call them every evening, but they don't say anything about having one friend at a time over to spend the night. Possibly because he hasn't asked if he could since he was Neil's age.

They're going to be gone the whole weekend after the conference ends because it's too far to go and not play tourist apparently, which means there are two potential nights Mr. and Mrs. Ratliff might let Tommy stay over. They never got around to getting a motel, but this will be even better. No one to tell them they’re too young to get a room, no having to lie to anyone, and best of all, it won’t cost them anything. Adam texts Tommy with the news and an invitation from the bus to school while Danielle is distracted with Alexis' new hair cut. He's pretty sure his mom asked Danielle to keep an eye on him while they're gone, and it would totally be like Danielle to start early. Not that she's a snitch, but she will take any excuse she can get to be justified in her nosiness.

Fuck yes. I’ll lie if I have to," Tommy sends back two seconds later.

"no getting grounded again." It's been almost two months since the last time, but Adam hates it when Tommy's grounded. He's gotten used to getting regular text messages, even when they can't actually see each other.

THE WHOLE WEEKEND. FUCK."

Adam sucks a breath in through his teeth at that, because he'd only really thought about Tommy spending the night, not about the fact that they would have the whole house to themselves all Saturday and Sunday, too. Adam wonders if they can get away with never putting clothes on.

"What are you doing?" Danielle asks, peering over the seat at Adam's phone.

Adam covers the screen with his hand but before he can even deny anything, she adds, "I won't tell your mom if you have Tommy Joe over, but only if you tell me everything."

"If you tell her I am never speaking to you again, and I'm telling Billy you're in love with him, _and_ I'm telling Vanessa that you're the one who stole her diamond necklace," Adam hisses under the general hubbub of the bus.

"But I didn't!"

"Your word against mine, and Vanessa loves me and thinks you're a bitch because you told her her sweater was ugly that time in seventh grade."

"You're such an asshole," Danielle complains, but Adam knows he's won.

His phone buzzes again, and, glaring at Danielle, holding the screen so she can't see, he thumbs open the text.

"I've got my hand in my pants thinking about it."

Adam tries to keep his face composed, but he can tell it's a total failure.

"You were a lot nicer before you got a boyfriend." Danielle mouths the last three words, because even when she's pissed, she's not a total bitch, and Joey Carrera and Phil Litton are sitting almost right across the aisle, and they have a history of punching kids they don't like the looks of, and also of calling Adam faggot and fudge packer. They don't need actual proof he's gay.

But Adam couldn't care less about Danielle or a couple of assholes he goes to school with. "Aren't you on the bus?" he texts back.

"no1 next to me. have my jacket in my lap."

If anyone else told Adam they were jerking it on the bus, he wouldn't believe them for a moment. But Tommy just might do it. "u gonna come?" Adam asks. He can feel the heat flushing his face, and knows this is a bad idea, but he has to know.

"u want me 2? walk around all day with jizz in my shorts from thnkn bout suking u all nite?"

Adam is seriously worried he is going to crush his phone. Or maybe pass out, because he's not sure he can remember how to, like, _breathe_. "fuck," he sends back.

"i'd ttly let you fuck me."

They are rounding the corner in front of the school, and Adam is hard, and trapped in his jeans, and trying not to bite his tongue off holding back the whimpers because he's having fucking text sex with his boyfriend and he has to stand up. He hates his life.

"why aren't u here rn?" he says. Then, "at school. don't stop tho. 15 mins til bell."

"leaking. if u were here i'd let u suck the taste off my thumb."

Adam is so completely fucked.

The brakes squeal and he's thrown forward enough to pinch his dick in a fold of denim and bash his wrist on the seat in front protecting his phone. There's enough chaos with the students shoving for the doors that Adam hides the noise he makes and manages to stand and get his bag in front of himself. There's a boys room right inside the school doors and there's bound to be enough of a crowd at the urinals no one will think twice about him going in a stall.

By the time he gets the flimsy door locked behind him, there are three more texts.

"tasted it for you"

"wish it was ur hand on me"

"fucking school sucks"

Adam could not be in more agreement with the last one. "fukin killin me," he manages to text one handed while he gets his jeans open with the other. He wasn't going to actually jerk off, just get some privacy to get things under control, but the thought of Tommy fucking tasting himself on the _bus_ is too much.

"u touchin urself yet?"

"yes. fuck. so hard. jerkin in the boys room."

"bein quiet or gonna let em hear u?"

"qiet" Adam's texting with his left hand and jerking himself fast and hard with his right which leaves no hand to gag himself. It's gonna have to be willpower, not that he's exactly a shining example of that right now.

"let me hear u this wknd tho right?"

Adam will do whatever Tommy wants. He's too close to coming to tell him that, though, so he just sends back, "y".

When his phone buzzes in his hand again, Adam shoots before he even reads what Tommy said.

This, Adam thinks as he's wiping his hand on a fistful of toilet paper, is how people get themselves in serious trouble. He's got his dick out and his phone in his hand, and it's so fucking tempting to take a picture and send it to Tommy. Fortunately he remembers the article his dad read them (Yes, at the dinner table, thank you so much. The man totally has a thing.) about a girl who got expelled for sending pictures of her boobs to her boyfriend. And the boy almost got arrested but the girl's nipples weren't showing or something. Whatever, Adam really doesn't want Tommy getting arrested. That would be way worse than grounded.

Instead of hitting the camera button, Adam opens the text.

"im gonna make you scream"

"u cn try," Adam texts back. And fuck. That's the first bell.  

"came on the bus," Tommy says. "gonna be all wet and sticky the rest of the day"

"wanna lick you. fuck final bell ttyl. <3" Adam isn't sure about the heart, but he hits send before he can erase it.

 

Adam’s parents leave while he’s at school on Monday, so he comes home to an empty house with a very full refrigerator. He suspects his mom wants to make sure he doesn’t have “I needed to get some groceries” as an excuse for having used the car after all. He has a snack, and does his math homework, then goes to his voice lesson and comes home to an empty house again. He makes a meatloaf sandwich for dinner and eats it in front of the TV with his phone in his hand. Breaking the dinner time rules isn’t as exciting as it might be. At least not until Tommy finally answers his texts, and starts telling him about how he’s going to suck Adam’s dick in every room of his parents’ house come Friday.

It’s a very long week.

Danielle comes over most days, but she has to be home for dinner, and Tommy’s parents are on some kind of extra homework kick or something in exchange for letting him spend the whole weekend over at Adam’s, so he’s not on chat as often as usual, and there are long pauses between text messages.

School on Friday is even longer than school on his birthday when he had his appointment at the DMV. Then, he’s got to wait for Tommy to get all the way across town on the bus. Why did Tommy’s stupid mom have to tell him he couldn’t get his license?

Except somehow, Tommy is sitting on his front porch when Adam gets home after school, ear buds in his ears, hair flopping over his eyes, legs tucked up to his chest and fingers twitching on his shins like he’s playing guitar along with whatever he’s listening to. Adam stutters to a halt on the sidewalk, stunned all over again that this is _Tommy_. His best friend, his boyfriend, his― _his_.

“Hey,” he calls, once he’s gotten his legs started up again. Tommy looks up and his moue of concentration smooths out into a smile.

“I couldn’t wait anymore,” he says, tugging his earbuds out and forestalling Adam’s questions about what he’s doing here so early. “Forged a note about a dentist appointment and cut out at lunch.”

“You should have told me; I’d have skipped last period.”

“I would have, but the buses took for-fucking-ever. I only got here like ten minutes ago.” Now that Adam’s close enough, Tommy wraps his arms around his waist, burrowing under his jacket, wriggling his fingers until they find skin at the small of Adam’s back.

“Hi,” Adam says, hugging back, burying his nose in the hair behind Tommy’s ear, breathing in the smell of him, LA county bus scent and all.

They cling to each other on the porch for a while, until Adam realizes that half his neighbors and anyone passing could be watching them, and they have a whole house to cling in, and with considerably less clothing if they want to. He wants to.

“Hi,” he says again, pushing Tommy gently away. “We can go inside. And, like, get naked. Or, I could be a good host and offer you a drink or something.”

“I can drink naked,” Tommy says, stepping aside so Adam can get his key in the door.

But even with his parents two-thousand miles away, Adam feels a little crass flinging off his clothes in the foyer, and Tommy seems to feel the same, because the only things they lose between the porch and the kitchen are Adam’s jacket and Tommy’s bag. Adam gets them cokes cold from the fridge, and even remembers to replace them with warm ones from the pantry so they’ll have more to drink later if they want.

Neither of them say anything while they pop the cans, or while Adam gets out some pizza rolls and puts them on a plate and puts the plate in the microwave. “I’m usually, after school, are you hungry?” Adam says when the microwave dings. This is ridiculous. He let Tommy blow him back stage at school. He’s sucked Tommy’s cock upstairs in the bathroom he shares with his brother. This isn’t exactly a blind date or anything. There’s no reason for this to be awkward.

“I’m always hungry,” Tommy says, sounding more relieved than annoyed that Adam’s being kind of a freak. Food and drinks in hand they head for the living room, where they sit just close enough on the couch to share a plate, and watch TV for a while.

When the pizza rolls are gone and Adam’s watching Tommy tip the last of his soda into his mouth, he blurts, “I don’t know why I’m suddenly nervous.”

Tommy chokes a little on his coke, and Adam thinks he’s laughing at him, but once he gets his breath back, he says, “Me too, a little. We could go up to your room.”

 

It turns out blow jobs in his own bed when there’s no danger of anyone interrupting them is just as awesome as the idea of getting head in every room had been. They spend the rest of the afternoon cuddling and making out and dozing and rutting together until they’re too sticky and sore to come anymore, and then Adam washes the sheets while they eat an entire tortilla casserole, because it seems like the first time you have your boyfriend spend the night he should probably have clean sheets to sleep on, even if he’s half the reason they’re covered with jizz to begin with.

“You don’t snore, do you?” Tommy asks while they’re watching a movie after dinner, wrapped together in a blanket.

“You’re the only person I’ve ever shared a bed with,” Adam says. “You tell me.”

Tommy doesn’t answer, just pulls Adam’s arms tighter around his chest and snuggles closer, smiling a little in the flickering light of the TV screen.

When Adam wakes up the DVD menu is playing on an endless loop, and Tommy’s shaking his shoulder gently, smelling like shower gel, wearing pj pants and a long-sleeve t-shirt. “You want to take a shower while I make the bed?” he asks when he sees Adam’s eyes are open.

“Mrump?” Adam says, stretching, rubbing a fist over his face. Then, “How long was I asleep?”

“Long enough to drool all over my neck and for me to take a shower.” Tommy rubs his thumb teasingly under Adam’s lips but it’s just for show. Adam can’t feel any wet there. “I hope that was okay. The showering.”

“Oh no. Hot boys getting naked in my―“ Adam realizes he missed the hot naked boy. “You could have woken me up first. I would have watched.”

Tommy huffs a laugh. “Don’t be a creeper. Go wash the jizz off your dick and come get in bed. We have the whole weekend for you to see me naked.”

Adam’s stomach flips over at the thought.

Since there’s no point in jerking off when he’s got Tommy here, Adam’s shower is quick, but he still expects Tommy to be done by the time he’s dried off and in his sleep pants. But instead of his boyfriend warm and sleepy under the covers, Adam finds Tommy prickly and frustrated, jerking at the spare blanket Adam keeps on the bed in case his feet ever get cold. (His feet never get cold, but his mother’s do, so he and Neil both have blankets left over from the days she made their beds for them.)

“You okay?”

“Ugh. Queen beds are so much harder to put sheets on than twins. Also, this blanket is too small. How are you supposed to fit it on here?”

Adam takes the blanket out of his hands, folds it in half length ways then in half again before really looking at it. “Yeah. I have never used this blanket.” He drops it on the floor. Infusing his voice with sweeping drama like they’re lost in a snow cave and Tommy’s life might depend on Adam’s body heat, he says “We don’t need the blanket. I will keep you warm.” He likes the idea. Kind of a lot. Not the snow part, or the cave part, but Tommy depending on him? _Yeah_.

Tommy’s still looking at the blanket on the floor when Adam crowds him onto the bed, half lifting, half shoving him so Adam can crawl right on top of him, show him what a great blanket Adam makes. “Ooof,” Tommy says, but he’s pushing a lot harder with his hips than with his hands, and when Adam pushes back he lets out a little whimpering moan, so Adam just says, “See?” delightedly, lining up their palms and arms and legs, covering Tommy completely. “With me here you can totally sleep without blankets.”

“With you here,” Tommy says, voice low and not at all matching the bright tone Adam’s using, “I’m not that interested in sleeping at all.”

Which works out perfectly, since Adam would much rather hold Tommy down and see if they can both get off like this, no hands.

 

They sleep late, tangled around each other under Adam’s quilt, which is actually important in the end, because they’ve lost their pants, and their shirts, and Tommy can’t actually breathe with Adam’s dead weight on top of him, but it’s toasty and warm and body heat is really pretty awesome. Because Adam is the best boyfriend, he brings Tommy bagels for breakfast in bed―though it’s past lunch time and they eat them on the blanket on the floor like they’re on a picnic and not in bed at all. The house phone rings while they’re arguing over whether raisin bagels are better with butter or cream cheese, and when Adam doesn’t answer it, his phone starts up with his mom’s ring tone. When he answers it, frowning, Tommy stands, and, patting him on the shoulder with a smirk, heads for the bathroom.

Adam listens to his mom tell him all about the science museum, and the aquarium, and the pizza they had last night, and he wonders if she’s ever going to stop talking, and he wonders where Tommy went, and he wishes he’d never answered his phone. He doesn’t really care what his parents are doing in Illinois, and he’s sure he’s going to have to hear it all again when they get home, anyway. He’s about to try to find some excuse to get off the phone when Tommy finally comes back.

He’s not wearing any clothes, and Adam won’t need an excuse to get off the phone because he is going to swallow his own tongue and die.

“Danielle’s here,” Tommy says, loud enough for Leila to hear. “We need to get the next bus or we’ll miss the movie.”

“That’s nice that the three of you are going out,” Leila says. And fuck. Adam hadn’t told her Tommy was coming over. He looks at his clock. It’s almost three in the afternoon, though, so there’s no reason for her to think Tommy’s still here from last night.

“Yeah,” Adam squeaks. It would be nice. Will be nice. He’s totally going to arrange for that to happen. At some point. Some point when Tommy isn’t naked, his dick less than a foot from Adam’s mouth.

“I’ll let you go then, sweetie.” Adam’s trying to get enough air to say ‘bye’ when she adds, “I know it’s tempting with us gone, but no using the car to take Tommy home tonight. Your dad wrote down the mileage, remember.”

Adam remembers. Eber told him about it before he did it, again while he stuck the paper he wrote it on to the refrigerator with a magnet, and a third time when he put the numbers in the notebook on his phone. His parents must have been really naughty as teenagers, because Adam never thinks of doing half the stuff they worry he’s going to.

He’s not sure what it says that they don’t seem to be worried he’s going to spend the weekend having sex with his boyfriend.

“I won’t drive him home, mom. Don’t worry.” Adam prays she doesn’t hear the _because he’s not going home_ he leaves unspoken.

Finally, she says, “Have fun, sweetie. Bye!” and he can hang up.

“How’s your mom?” Tommy says.

“There is a rule.” Adam grabs Tommy by the hips and pulls him down on his lap. He can’t think with Tommy’s dick bobbing in his face like that. “You are not allowed to talk about my mom while you’re naked. Or while I’m naked. No talking about my mom while there is any nakedness happening.”

“Sure,” Tommy agrees far too easily. “I think you should fuck me today.”

Adam probably didn’t hear that correctly. “I. You. What?”

“Fucking. We should do it. Today.” Which sounds pretty much the same as the first time he said it.

It’s not like Adam hasn’t thought about it. It’s not even like they haven’t talked about it. But Adam never really took the things Tommy said down the phone when they both had their hands in their pants _seriously_. “For real?” he asks.

“We don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Tommy says, struggling to extricate himself from Adam’s lap.

“No.” Adam says, holding tighter. “I want to. I really _really_ want to. Just trying not to get my hopes up here.”

“Okay.” Tommy’s eyes are narrowed, and he reaches down to palm Adam’s dick, like he imagines it’s going to be anything but hard. “Okay,” he says again once he has a handful of ready-to-go. “You should take your clothes off.”

Shifting Tommy onto the floor so he can stand, Adam gets on that.

As soon as Adam’s shirt is off, Tommy leans in to kiss him, which makes it a little harder to slip out of his pants, but calms Adam’s nerves, too, and that’s a good thing. Because it’s pretty hard to give a bad hand job, and as long as you don’t bite, pretty much all blow jobs are pretty awesome too, in his experience. But if you’re bad at fucking you can, like, traumatize someone forever. Adam has heard the stories. He doesn’t want to be bad at fucking. And Tommy has more experience than Adam does, at least with blow jobs and stuff, so he might have done this before. So even if Adam’s not horrible, he might be laughable. Adam doesn’t want Tommy laughing at him.

“I don’t have any condoms,” Adam remembers aloud as Tommy pulls him down on the bed.

"You can't tell me your dad didn't give you condoms with the sex talk. He's so the dad who gives you condoms."

He is. It's true. And he did. "Neil stole them and turned them into water balloons." Adam hadn't really cared at the time, because the sex talk had mostly been about not getting girls pregnant, and Adam hadn't been able to imagine a scenario where that might be a problem. But he pays attention in sex ed, and he doesn't want any diseases, either.

"I'm clean," Tommy says. "We can do it anyway."

Adam really wants to. His dick practically leaps across the sliver of bed between them at the suggestion. But he remembers Tommy’s talk in his uncle’s car about being tested for the clap. He must have been worried about it if he got tested. "Does the school nurse test for everything?" Adam asks.

Tommy's staring very hard at Adam's nipples, or maybe the mattress where he's tracing an invisible wrinkle with his fingertip.

"Tommy?" Adam wants to touch him, but he's practically vibrating with tension and Adam's a little bit afraid he's going to break.

"Never mind," Tommy says. "I'll blow you and we can go get condoms later."

Adam never thought he'd see the day he would turn down a blow job, but something weird is going on here, and he thinks they need to talk about it. “Yes she tested you or no she didn’t,” Adam says. “I’ll trust you if you just tell me.” Tommy might lie to his parents, or about whether he’s actually going to call, but he wouldn’t lie about something that could make Adam sick.

“She never tested me,” Tommy mutters.

“Jesus,” Adam says. “Like at all? I could have mouth clap right now?” That’s not what you call it, but he definitely remembers whichever disease people call the clap is one of the ones you could get by giving head. “Why did you tell me you got tested? What the fuck?”

Tommy doesn’t say anything, and Adam shoves his shoulder, goes to get out of bed and put his clothes back on. This is so not okay.

Before he can do more than start to roll over, Tommy grabs his wrist. “I’m a fucking virgin, okay?" he says, voice overloud with panic. He’s still avoiding Adam’s eyes. Adam doesn’t say anything, but he stops trying to pull away. More quietly, but voice still strained to breaking, Tommy says, "I got my hand on Matt Lombardi's dick through his jeans once and he gave me a black eye. Unless you can get an STD from getting punched in the face and called a filthy faggot, I'm clean."

It takes everything Adam has to turn the laughter that bubbles up in his chest into a wheezing, gasping bid for air. He doesn't think it's even a little bit funny―he's just so fucking relieved―but Tommy won't get that, Adam knows. He'll think Adam's making fun of him. "Fuck," Adam says, once the laughter's under control.

Adam's plotting Matt Lombardi's painful demise and trying to figure out how the hell to respond when the implication of what Tommy just said slaps him. Tommy’s been lying to him since the night they first hooked up.

"Why didn't you just tell me?" he says, rising up on his elbow to look Tommy in the face, heat and hurt in his voice.

Instead of answering, Tommy fists a hand in his bangs, effectively cutting off Adam's view of his eyes.

"Seriously," Adam says, prodding him in the shoulder again, though more gently this time. "Am I that much of an asshole?"

"I'll just go," Tommy mutters, rolling over and starting to slide out from under the covers.

Before he can catch a breath, Adam's irritation flips to anger, and he grabs Tommy's arm. "You will not just go, jesus."

He's grabbing too hard, holding too tight, and he forces his fingers to relax so they're a bracelet not a cuff on Tommy's wrist. Tommy doesn't turn to face him, but he stops moving away, and he doesn't try to take his hand back.

"Look at me," Adam says, and when Tommy doesn't, softer, "Come on. Look at me."

Tommy glances back over his shoulder, blink-and-you'd-miss-it quick, and then curls in a ball, his back to Adam. Adam lets his arm go so he can cuddle him to his chest.

This is so fucked up.

"Why would I care that you're a virgin?"

"Why are you pissed at me then?" Tommy's voice barely makes it past the hunch of his shoulders.

"I was a little surprised you've been lying to me for like seven months," Adam says, trying to keep his voice calm but doing a pretty shitty job of it.

All Tommy has to say is, "Yeah, well."

Adam needs a break or he's gonna push Tommy too far. "I'm gonna go get a drink or something. Don't― Just don't leave, okay?"

Tommy nods, curling even tighter, tugging the quilt higher over his shoulders.

"Want some hot chocolate?" Adam asks, desperate for Tommy to unwind a little.

Tommy nods again, and Adam figures that's all he's going to get right now. He pulls on his boxers and heads for the kitchen.

It takes a few minutes to put a pan of milk on the stove for hot chocolate and get out mugs, but then he's just waiting. And thinking.

And feeling like an idiot for all the times he worried Tommy thought he was lame and stupid and inexperienced, when Tommy didn't know any more than he did. Even though the heated floors and afternoon sun have made the kitchen summer hot, he starts shivering, and the note his dad left on the refrigerator that he can't stop staring at goes blurry.

"Fuck you," he chokes out. His fist is clenched and cocked. Something stops him seconds before he throws a punch at the steel fridge, and he stumbles blindly into the sunroom off the kitchen where he can lay into the overstuffed cushions of his mom's reading chair instead. It hurts just enough, the impact jarring his shoulder and the rough tweed fabric scraping his knuckles, but he's not going to break any bones.

Pissed off as he is, he doesn't want Tommy to hear him, because he knows, fucking _knows_ , if Tommy sees how upset he is he's going to take off. At the same time, he's not sure he doesn't wish the stupid chair was Tommy's face.

Just thinking that drops him to his knees, fury drained out of him like it was never there. He buries his face in his arms on the seat cushion, even his tears replaced by numb shock.

Several minutes later, the smell of hot milk pushes him to his feet, and once he's standing again, he feels like the biggest drama queen in the world. It fucking sucks that Tommy lied to him, but a lot of the shit Tommy's done since they became friends again has sucked. Things have been good for months now, though. Except he thought part of what was good was that Tommy seemed to trust him.

Adam hits the kitchen just as the milk starts boiling over the edge of the pan. He's not in time to save the stovetop, but he does get to it before it burns. At least it's one of those convection stoves with a glass surface, and it won't be too hard to clean. Shoulders relaxed, breathing calm, Adam pours milk into the mugs of chocolate powder, whisking with the little whisk until all the cocoa is dissolved.

Grabbing the mugs, Adam checks his face in the mirrored back of the china cabinet, and he doesn't look too blotchy, so he heads back to Tommy.

He expects to find a little lump curled up under the quilt still, but Tommy's sitting up against the pillows, Adam's spare blanket around his shoulders and the sheet barely covering his lap. He's so fucking gorgeous and he's in Adam's bed, and Adam honestly doesn't have a fucking clue what to do with that information.

"I'm sorry," Tommy says as soon as Adam crosses the threshold. "You're not the asshole. I am."

"No you're not," Adam says, mouth on autopilot.

Tommy looks at him, _are you fucking kidding me?_ face as clear as Danielle’s ever is.

"Okay. Maybe a little."

"I got this reputation, and I don't know. I played up to it, and you seemed to like me. I wanted you to keep liking me. And then honestly, after a while, I forgot I’d kind of implied I was a slut.”

The thought of you sucking a lot of dick isn’t what made me like you.” It hits Adam that his was the first dick Tommy ever sucked. That night in his uncle's car was Tommy's first time, too. "I probably would have liked it more if I knew I was your first."

"I'm sorry," Tommy says again, hugging his knees up to his chest, but not hiding his face this time.

Wanting to be closer, Adam comes the rest of the way into the room and lurks half way to the bed. "It's okay," he says, and it is, mostly. "Now I know, and that's kind of hot."

"When you came in my mouth that first time I had no fucking clue what I was doing." Tommy snorts a little self-deprecating laugh. "I was scared you might figure it out then, actually."

"I figured spitting jizz everywhere was pretty standard when you had no warning." Adam holds a mug of cocoa out to Tommy, putting the other one on his bedside table. If he was going to figure it out, that might have been the time, except, really, how was he supposed to know?

Adam still doesn’t get why Tommy thought he couldn’t tell him, except shit was weird for the first few months anyway―Tommy was weird―and then they never really talked about it after that. Adam just kept assuming. Whatever. Tommy’s here for the whole weekend. And Adam’s his first everything. “We’re going to have so much sex,” Adam says.

“You still want to?” Tommy asks, smile a little wobbly.

“We can finish our cocoa first,” Adam says. But he takes Tommy’s mug out of his hand so he can kiss him, and their drinks end up forgotten.

 

The internet is amazing, and Adam loves it, especially since he figured out how to clear the browser history so he doesn't have to live in constant fear that his family will figure out what he's been looking at, but it failed completely to actually prepare him for what it's like to have actual sex with an actual boy. Not that Adam's really complaining, but he could maybe be a little smoother about it all. For one thing, they never really show the lube in gay porn. Or, like, the prep. And Adam's read that lube's important, and he's been using it when he whacks off, so he knows how much works for that and stuff, but he's not really sure how much is enough for fucking.

More than he thought, is the answer.

"Ow," Tommy says against Adam's mouth, and Adam freezes. "I think―" Tommy reaches down and wraps his fingers around Adam's wrist. "More stroking and less pushing?"

Adam tries that. He can't move very much because of how Tommy's holding on, and how Tommy doesn't have his legs very wide apart―maybe because Adam's sort of lying half on top of him so they can kiss―so it's more a wiggle with his fingertip than the stroking that Tommy means. "Hang on," he says, sitting up.

Watching him a little warily, Tommy lets go of Adam's wrist. "This isn't you stopping, is it?" he says.

"Improving," Adam reassures him. "I hope." Something about knowing Tommy's never done this before, never done anything before that Adam hasn't done with him, makes him feel about a million times more awkward and a million times more confident at the same time, which should cancel each other out, but doesn't. But he's going to not think about that, because he's got Tommy on his bed, naked, and he's got lube, and Tommy was begging and now he's looking at Adam expectantly, and, _ohmygod sex._

Sex with a boy. Jesus. Hottest thing ever.

"Adam?" Tommy asks, fairly pointedly.

Right. Actual sex. Not just fantasy sex. "Sorry," Adam says.

Going to his knees, Adam strokes Tommy's thighs, pushing them apart so he can crawl between them. He can't stop staring at the shadowy cleft of Tommy's ass, though he can feel Tommy's eyes on him, and he wants to look at Tommy's face, make sure this is okay. "God you're hot," he says, tearing his gaze away from Tommy's ass just in time to catch the flush staining his cheeks.

Tommy's propped on two pillows, but Adam has four on his bed, and he grabs one of the spares, hoisting Tommy up by the small of his back and trying to shove it under his hips. He's not very successful until Tommy catches on and helps, planting his feet to lift up.

"This is you improving?" Now Tommy's got his knees in the air and his feet up by the pillow under his ass, and Adam can actually _see._ It's definitely an improvement.

"Totally," Adam says, reaching for the lube.

It's even better when Tommy shifts down a little, opening up even more, letting his knees drop wider. "Gonna get you all wet this time," Adam says, and god that sounds cheesy out loud, but Tommy's practically pulling his lip ring out with his teeth, which is what he does when he really likes what Adam's doing, so Adam doesn't apologize, just squeezes extra lube onto his fingers and rubs at Tommy's hole.

"Cold," Tommy says, but he's pushing against Adam's fingers, so Adam doesn't think it's really a complaint.

Adam slicks up and down Tommy's crack, gently gently, and it takes everything he has not to try to push in when he gets to Tommy's hole. He wishes he'd tried this on himself at least once so he'd know what it feels like. "How much stroking?" he asks, because seriously. He's not sure how long he can keep control.

"You don't have to―" Tommy reaches down again, but this time fits his fingers to Adam's. "Not teasing. Just not shoving everything at once."

Their fingers slip together, and go skidding up behind Tommy's balls, making both of them jump, but then as Adam watches, Tommy slides down and rocks the pad of his middle finger against his hole, and Adam thinks he gets it. He stares for a minute, captured by the motion, and watching is hot, but Adam needs to try it, too.

"Can I?" he says, voice cracking a little, and Tommy nods.

Adam gets his finger under Tommy's, pressing gently, remembering that these are muscles and he's trying to get Tommy to relax. "Like a massage," he mutters, and that wasn't really supposed to be aloud, but Tommy huffs a laugh, says, "Yes," and nudges Adam's fingers a little more firmly against him.

It starts making sense in his fingertips as well as his brain, and Tommy's rocking his hips just a little, letting him know when he's doing it right, and his finger's starting to slip inside, just the tip, because he's not pushing. He's _not_ pushing. At all. Except _Tommy's_ pushing, and his finger is disappearing, and it's so fucking hot, in like every _possible_ definition of that word, and Adam wants to go further, but he also wants to pull away, because he wants his whole hand, his arm, god his _everything_ inside that heat, and he's not sure he can keep from trying.

"Tommy?" he says, voice fucking quivering, and he isn't moving, is just staring at Tommy's hips lifting off the pillow, at his body opening up, and he's almost down to Adam's bottom knuckle now, and Adam is _never_ going to get to fuck him, ever, because he is going to _die_.

"Oh," Tommy says, and, "Fuck. That's―" He clenches, grinds his ass down into the pillow, taking Adam's hand with him, and Adam pushes, can't help it, gets a fraction deeper, and Tommy drags in air like it's molasses.

"I'm gonna come," Adam says, and he is. He so is.

But, "Don't you fucking dare," Tommy hisses. He's wiggling, and Adam pulls out a little bit, pushes back in, and Tommy starts nodding frantically. "Like that. Do it like that." So Adam does.

It's easier not to think about his own dick when he's moving, feeling how slick Tommy is inside, how soft, and the fucking _heat_. He pushes up and in and Tommy rocks down and fucking _moans_ , this deep ragged sound that forces a whimper out of Adam's chest. This is way more intense than having Tommy's dick in his mouth, or licking come off Tommy's neck, or staring at him while he sleeps, thinking, _I love you I love you I love you_ , and wishing he could say it out loud. It's more intense than anything ever. And Adam doesn't even have his dick inside him yet.

"More," Tommy breathes, "more more more," and he's scrabbling at Adam's fingers, trying to push them into his ass.

Adam doesn't bend that way, and one of them is going to hurt something, so he pulls Tommy's hand away with his free hand, and pulls out far enough to push back in with two fingers. Tommy's ass is resistant at first, but he does that rocking thing again, and Adam twists a little bit, and sinks inside.

His fingers are being crushed against each other, his knuckles grinding together, and then something shifts, and they're just enveloped in snug, slick, heat. "Moooooooooove," Tommy moans, but he's moving enough for both of them, whole body rocking, his hands braced above his head, heels digging into the mattress, and Adam has to grab his own wrist to steady his arm, keep Tommy from fucking himself off Adam's hand completely. His head's arched so far back Adam can't see much more than his chin and the tip of his nose, and he's making these sounds like he's crying, except really really not, and Tommy's so fucking gorgeous, so fucking wanton, that Adam has no warning whatsoever before his orgasm hits despite his best intentions.

He hardly notices at first, so turned on that it's just a matter of intensity, but then he sees the jizz on his thighs and Tommy's shin, and his own arm, and _fuck_ that is so not helpful. Tommy doesn't notice at all, is still fucking himself on Adam's hand, hitching breaths between groans and whimpers, and Adam has never hated his dick before―not even when he got hard giving a report on cell division in front of Ms. Miller’s bio class―as much as he does right now. He really _really_ wants to be fucking Tommy, but he needs a hard dick to do it.

Though actually, his dick hasn't really gone soft.

Adam's staring at where his fingers are buried inside his boyfriend, and imagining what that's gonna look like around his dick, and his dick, despite being spattered with jizz, is very fucking interested in that image, and Adam's pretty sure with a few tugs he'll be fully hard again. The apologies and explanations he was ready to give to Tommy turn to entreaties on his tongue, "God, Tommy, so hot, want you, fuck, can I, will you, please, more," and sounds that don't even mean anything. He's palming his dick with his free hand, and yeah, he's definitely going to be ready soon.

"Yes," Tommy says, and, "do it," and, "more," and Adam concentrates again on what his fingers are doing, how they're sliding easily now, like maybe Tommy's open, or relaxed, or whatever it is he's supposed to be, but Adam should probably do three fingers just to make sure.

"Slow down," he says, petting Tommy's hip, but what he means is _Stop fucking my hand for a second_ , and Tommy doesn't get that at all.

"Dun wanna slow," he mumbles, adding a filthy-hot twist to the way he's rocking his ass. His dick is _so hard_ , flat on his abs, the head slipping back and forth in a slick of precome as he moves.

Yeah. Slow is a stupid idea.

Adam figures out how to time his thrust with Tommy's and get a third finger inside. It makes Tommy whimper, and twist again as he bucks up hard. "Gotta be now," he says. “Or― _aaah_ ”

Adam has no intention of finding out what the consequences of it not being now might be.

He smears the lube from his fingers onto his dick while he's pouring more straight out of the bottle. It's all over his thighs, mixing with the come that'd started to dry, making his leg hair glisten darkly, but he's not going to hurt Tommy. He's _not._ Lube is _key_. Everyone says so.

"Are you gonna," Tommy says, and he's reaching for Adam's hand, vague and uncoordinated, his other palm still pressed hard against the wall above Adam's bed, putting an arch in his spine that Adam can't quite tear his eyes away from. But then Tommy's question sinks in. He's asking to be fucked. Asking _Adam_ to fuck him.

"Yeah," Adam says, voice little more than a broken exhalation as he surges forward, the hand not on his dick planting next to Tommy's shoulder so he can kiss him, hard and fast and no more coordinated than Tommy's grasping had been.

His dick bumps Tommy's nuts, and he's so glad he came already, or that probably would have done him in, and getting so close and then being denied would have actually killed him. One of Tommy's feet comes up to hook around the back of Adam's thigh and Adam realizes this is so much harder than they make it look in movies. He's going to have to do this by feel―preferably without falling on Tommy, crushing him or breaking something―but maybe the secret is to stop fucking thinking so much, because while he's been freaking out, his hand has slid to the end of his dick and is holding it steady, ring finger and thumb, while his forefinger slides up Tommy's crack, and _there_ ―

Hole doesn't seem like quite the right word as Adam tries to push inside and his dick shoots on a slick of lube right down Tommy's ass and ends up wedged between the pillow and the small of Tommy's back. "Sorry," Adam says, "Sorry."

Tommy says something that sounds like, "Mmrrm mrvv shrm shrm," which makes no sense at all, obviously, and then he's hauling on Adam's shoulders to sit up, then pushing him away, and Adam goes, even though he doesn't want to.

Over,” Tommy says as he twists around, turning his back on Adam, and _oh_ that looks so much easier.

Tommy's hip is right there, something to hold on to, and Adam can watch as his fingers slide back into Tommy's body, guide the way for his dick. Tommy whimpers when they go in, again when Adam pulls them out, but he's pressing back into Adam's hand, knees skidding a little wider when Adam slides the head of his cock between his cheeks.

In, in, _in_ ," Tommy says, reaching back to clutch at Adam's wrist where it rests against his flank. " _In._ "

Adam lines up, fingers still guiding, and leans. Nothing happens. "I don't think―" he says, but then Tommy pushes his chest down and his ass up, and Adam starts to slip inside.

It's nothing like trying to get his fingers in, not even all three of them at once; his dick is much harder to control, and enough bigger that this looks impossible. But Tommy's saying, "Adam, Adam, Adam," over and over, and pulling on his wrist like somehow that's going to get Adam deeper, and even if he weren't desperate to fucking do this, that would be incentive enough to keep going. Pressure, pressure, pressure and then there's a popping sensation that makes Tommy gasp and Adam groan, and then it's slipping in and in and Tommy's nails are going to break right through the skin on Adam's arm, and holy fuck they're _fucking_.

"Tommy," Adam says, awed, the hand he no longer needs on his dick gripping tight to Tommy's ass, leaving lube-smeared fingerprints until skin catches on skin.

The sound Tommy makes is strangled, muffled in the pillow, and it's the hottest thing Adam's ever heard. Adam needs to hear it again, so he pulls back, though he's only half-way inside yet, and then shoves forward, getting deeper this time, forcing another desperate sound from Tommy's throat. It spurs Adam deeper, hips twitching as he tries to process everything at once.

"Fuck," Tommy moans. "Oh fuck, _Adam_."

"Do you need―" God, Adam is going to die if Tommy needs him to stop.

Move,” Tommy says, head twisting on the pillow so he’s looking back over his shoulder. His thighs are shaking, his fingers are clenching and unclenching on Adam's wrist and in the pillow up by his face.

Adam doesn't have a fucking clue how he's going to move the way Tommy wants him to, and then his hips are rolling of their own accord. He comes out too far, nearly slips out completely, but he's watching and his thumb's right there to nudge his dick back inside. He rolls again, and again, and again, mindless motion, pure sensation, and after a while Tommy releases the death grip he's got on Adam's wrist to clutch the sheet up near his head instead, which reminds Adam to reach around for Tommy's dick.

That fucks up his coordination, but Tommy's moaning low, biting the fucking pillow, rocking his hips back like he was doing on Adam's fingers, and fuck coordination, Adam's just trying to hold on, make this last long enough to make Tommy come on his dick. He squeezes his eyes shut, blocking out the image of his cock disappearing into Tommy's body, into all that willing heat, because that's one sense too many; who gives a fuck that he came ten minutes ago.

All the half-formed plans Adam had had about this moment―getting the right angle, making it good for Tommy, not going too fast or too hard or too slow or whatever―fly right out the window, because all that exists is slick heat and clutching fingers and gasping breath, _his and Tommy’s_ heat and fingers and need to move air in and out, and this is _them_ doing this, and if the way they make this look easy in porn is to practice, Adam really wants to learn to make it look easy, because, god, he could do this forever, but in the mean time, fuck, he’d better concentrate, because he’s probably giving Tommy the worst handjob of his life here. All Adam can do is try to keep his grip, not get distracted and squeeze too hard or let go completely as he gets lost in the friction on his cock.

Taking Adam by surprise, Tommy comes on a string of sounds unlike anything Adam's ever heard, and nearly pulls Adam's dick off with the way he twists his ass. Adam tumbles forward and ends up riding Tommy down onto the bed, their legs splaying, Adam grinding deeper, coming as he tries to catch his breath from the fall.

"Fuck, are you okay?" he finally gets enough air to ask, though he's not sure how Tommy's gonna answer with Adam crushing his lungs.

"Mmmh," Tommy says, sliding his hand across the sheet just far enough to hook two fingers around Adam's thumb and hold on.

Adam takes that as a yes. He knows he needs to pull out, figures he should probably go up not sideways to do it, but he's not sure he can get a knee underneath himself to get the leverage. Somehow he manages to shift his hips and his dick slips out wetly, without him doing much of anything. They both whimper when it does.

"You okay?" Adam asks again.

Tommy squeezes Adam's fingers tighter for a second, but Adam's still crushing him, so he tries to roll off.

Mm mm,” Tommy says as soon as Adam's weight shifts.

"I'm too heavy," Adam says, but before he can move farther, Tommy whimpers, stopping him.

Mm mm,” Tommy says again, shifting one shoulder and settling his head deeper into the pillow.

Adam doesn't have anyplace to put his head except Tommy's skull, which doesn't seem that comfortable. He pulls his arm closer, dragging Tommy's with it, and tucks them around Tommy's head, resting his on their crooked elbows. It's still not ideal, but it makes Tommy hum happily, so Adam stays. Eventually, though, his neck starts to hurt, and the slick of jizz between his dick and Tommy's ass is starting to go sticky, and he really needs some water, and he has to move.

"Sorry," he says. "I'll be right back."

This time Tommy doesn't protest, just hums again when Adam kisses his shoulder blade as he goes.

He hasn't moved when Adam comes back with a warm wash cloth and a glass of water, but he's awake, staring wide-eyed at the door, so Adam gives him a smile. Tommy’s eyes flutter closed, and his hand slides farther into the space Adam left next to him. “Gonna clean you up now,” Adam says, picking up Tommy’s hand and kissing it. Tommy must have had the biggest orgasm ever, because there’s no witty retort; he just spreads his legs a little and squeezes Adam’s thumb.

Shuffling closer, Adam starts wiping at the lube on Tommy’s skin with the washcloth, making him shiver a little when the edges that went cold while Adam was walking back come in contact with his balls, and Adam thinks next time he'll have to fold it smaller, keep the heat in with his hands. Then he thinks about assuming there's going to be a next time and what his dad always says about people who assume things.

"That was really good," he says. "I mean, I liked it." He wipes up the inside of Tommy's near thigh and then the far one. "Sorry I wasn't better."

That gets a flat-eyed look from Tommy, and, "Better?"

Tommy came, which is good. A lot of guys don't when they're being fucked Adam's read, and even fewer their first time. But Tommy was almost coming from Adam's fingers. He probably didn't get off from the clumsy way Adam was fucking him. "Like more― I don't know," Adam says.

"Uh huh," Tommy says under his breath, and then, "Am I clean yet?"

He is, mostly, and Adam folds the cloth clean side out and makes one more pass over the crack of his ass before kissing it. "Clean," he declares.

C’m’ere? Need a pillow.” While Adam's dropping the cloth onto one of the empty plates that have gathered in his room over the course of the weekend, Tommy rolls on his side, leaving room for him.

Tommy wasn't kidding about using Adam for a pillow. He forgoes curling up under Adam's arm, head on his shoulder, and climbs right on top of him, pushing Adam's legs together with his toes when his foot falls between them.

"Hi," Adam says, bemused, and kind of crazily in love.

"Hi," Tommy answers, lifting Adam's left arm and putting his hand on Tommy's ass.

"You comfortable?"

Mm mm.”

Adam moves his chin where Tommy nudges it with his forehead, giving room for Tommy to tuck in underneath it.

"Now'm comfortable," Tommy says.

Adam isn't, not really, but he just lost his fucking virginity, had two orgasms, and his boyfriend wants to cuddle. You couldn't pay him to move.

 

Adam can't tell at first what woke him up, and then the barking penetrates. The neighbor's fucking Dalmatian. He really hates that dog. The room is night-dark, and Adam rolls over to peer at the clock. 2:36 AM. And jesus, the damn dog is freaking out. Adam pulls a pillow over his head, and only then realizes that Tommy was in bed with him when he fell asleep, and now he's gone. Gone, gone. There're no sounds coming from the bathroom, no hushed footsteps in the hall. "Tommy?" Adam says softly, just in case he's like, sitting in the corner or something weird, but there's no answer. Adam thought they were done with the disappearing acts.

Pulling on a pair of sweats and poking around with his toes for his flip-flops, Adam scans the room in the meagre glow from his bedside lamp, looking for Tommy's stuff. His shoes and jacket and jeans are gone, but the t-shirt draped over Adam's stereo is definitely Tommy's. He could have gone home in one of Adam's though; it wouldn't be the first time, though the last time they were only eight.

"Fuck," Adam mutters under his breath, and then when the dog starts up again, "Fuck!" loud enough that Tommy will hear him if he's anywhere in the house. Still no answer.

It hits Adam that maybe it's totally normal to fluctuate between wanting to smother your boyfriend with kisses and wanting to smother him with a pillow. Maybe Tommy finds him completely frustrating, too. Maybe that's why he keeps fucking leaving.

Or maybe Tommy's just a _freak_.

"I love you but you drive me fucking nuts," Adam says to his empty room, because he knows he's not going to say it to Tommy. With luck, it's Tommy that set Brutus (and seriously that is the stupidest name for a Dalmatian ever. Inappropriate, but not inappropriate enough to be ironic. _Stupid_.) off, and he hasn't made it any farther than the bus stop. But when Adam goes out front, he can't see anyone on the street at all. And Brutus' barks are coming from the back. Adam heads for the french doors off the kitchen.

There's a cherry glowing through the window of the treehouse in the cherry tree that has nothing to do with fruit. About eight layers of Adam's irritation slough off―Tommy didn't run away, he just found someplace to be alone and think. Adam thought he'd given up smoking, though, so he still sounds gruff when he stands at the bottom of the ladder and whisper-calls through the trap door, "I'm coming up."

There's a scrabbling sound in answer, like someone grinding out a cigarette against a wooden floor, and Adam says, "Don't bother, I can smell the smoke."

Tommy snorts, says, low, "You're so fucking sneaky." He's curled up in the beanbag in the corner, jacket crossed tight over his chest, hands tucked in his armpits, making Adam aware of the goosebumps on his own bare shoulders.

"Scoot," Adam says, climbing into the compact room. "Cold."

When Tommy sits up, his jacket lifts and Adam sees he has nothing on under it. Not that he wouldn't still be huddling if he were wearing a henley and a flannel with it. Settling into the warm hollow Tommy left, Adam pulls him down on top. Tommy tries to stay all hunched up, but Adam pets and strokes and pulls at him until he's lying on Adam's chest, cradled between his thighs, jacket open so they're skin to skin, not skin to harsh metal zipper. The scents of weathered wood, musty beanbag, sun-dried cherry pulp tease Adam's nostrils, and then Tommy relaxes, butting his head up under Adam's chin, tucking his hands under Adam's shoulders, and Adam's nose is filled with cigarette smoke, his mom's CostCo Pantene, and the heady stench of the two blow jobs and the actual omg sex they've had since they showered and Tommy borrowed shampoo.

"God, I want you _all the time_ ," Adam whispers, the words out of his mouth before they've even fully formed in his brain. And fuck, that was so not supposed to be out loud. A sheet of flame starts under Tommy's chin and floods Adam's face, and he'd give anything for the nightmare lullaby to come true, for the bough to break and the treehouse to fall, and okay, maybe not kill them both, but at least cause a diversion.

He expects Tommy to laugh, or push away, or tell him to fuck off, but his fingers curl tight under Adam's shoulder blades, and he turns his face right into Adam's chest, nearly drilling through his sternum with his forehead and nose. Adam doesn't breathe, or move, just keeps his arms looped around Tommy's back. Tommy's shaking, breath coming in ragged puffs against Adam's skin, and if Adam didn't know better, he'd think Tommy were crying.

Adam wants to apologize, wants to go all out and say, "I love you," wants to just say Tommy's name, but he doesn't want to make anything worse, and he still can't get enough oxygen.

Then Tommy heaves air in through his nose, chilling Adam's chest, and says, "Me too," so quiet Adam almost doesn't hear.  

The relief is like water spilling across Adam's bones and he clings to Tommy, arms and legs nearly crushing him. Tommy's clinging back, fingertips embedded either side of Adam's spine, elbows finding home under Adam's ribs, hard and sharp and painful, and Adam still wishes he could hold on tighter.

For long minutes there's nothing but the sounds of the night―leaves rustling; Brutus barking again, but from inside this time; a car going past in the street―then Tommy turns his head, presses his cheek to Adam's chest, pulling in a shaky breath. Adam lets his arms relax, starts rubbing Tommy's back in slow stroking circles over his kidneys, his other hand resting heavy between Tommy's shoulders.

"I hate doing what I'm told," Tommy says, voice rough.

This isn't exactly news, but Adam has no context for it right now, so he just murmurs, "mmm hmm," and keeps stroking.

"I _hate_ it," Tommy says again. He pulls his right hand out from under Adam's back and wipes his face with it before resting his palm on Adam's chest. Then, so quietly Adam has to strain to hear: "But I'd do anything you wanted me to. You could say anything. Do anything and I'd say yes."

Adam's skin is on fire, his guts dipped in ice, and then they swap places, goosebumps covering his arms and his chest filling with heat. He literally cannot breathe with how much he wants Tommy to feel that, though five seconds ago it never would have occurred to him to imagine it. But he wants Tommy to want it, too. He doesn't want him to sound so scared.

"We don't have to do that again," Adam says, words like glass in his throat. He was right. He shouldn't have assumed. "I'm sorry."

"No!" Tommy says. "No." He pushes up looking at Adam. "It was― That's not what I'm saying. Fuck. I'm not doing this right at all."

Adam's so confused. "I don't―" he says.

"Having you do that, be inside me like that― It was―" He buries his face in Adam's neck again. "But if you'd pulled a knife out, I would have let you slit my throat."

"I wouldn't― Tommy, what the fuck?" Why the hell would he want to slit Tommy's throat?

"I can't explain," Tommy mutters. He starts wiggling like he's trying to get out of Adam's hold.

"No," Adam says. "Tommy."

Tommy stills.

And shit. Jesus. Tommy doesn't _do_ that. That's Adam's role. That's― From the moment Adam didn't walk out when Tommy was forty-five minutes late at the pizza place, Adam's felt vulnerable to Tommy's whims. And, sure, lately he's been certain Tommy liked him back, but this is different.

"You think I don't get it?" Adam asks into the hair falling across Tommy's forehead.

"It's different for you."

"Because I've been stupid for you since you kissed me under that tree in the park?" Adam hadn't really thought of it that way, but he let Tommy grope him on a _bus_ for fuck's sake. Adam just doesn't do shit like that.

"Not stupid like this."

Adam is pretty sure the only difference is that he doesn't watch as many horror movies or play video games where the whole point seems to be to chop people's heads off with increasingly ridiculous weapons, so it's never occurred to him that Tommy would want to, like, kill him or anything.

"I will never want to slit your throat." Adam traces a line from the point of Tommy's jaw under his ear to the back of his neck. "I promise." He doesn't add that he also promises not to ever smother him with a pillow even if he does have the urge.

"You'll fuck me again, though, right?" Tommy asks.

"Only if you want me to." He might cry if Tommy doesn't want him to, because it was fucking amazing, but he'd survive.

"I want you to." Tommy nuzzles closer and tucks his hand under Adam's back again. "I need you to." The words are almost lost in Adam's chest.

"If I hurt you, we can―"

"No," Tommy spits harshly, fingers digging in with the word. "No. You don't get it."

"I need you, too." Adam smooths a hand down Tommy's back.

Tommy bucks against him, grinds his hips into Adam's, the bones peeking over the top of his jeans digging painfully into Adam's groin.

Adam tries to soothe him again with his hands, and when Tommy shakes him off, Adam says, "I love you." It's more because he can't keep it in anymore than because the thinks it's the right time, and he wants to kick himself for not waiting.

Tommy _growls_ , jabs Adam again with his hips and then starts to roll off him.

"Hey," Adam protests, wishing he'd kept his mouth shut, wishing Tommy would fucking _talk_ to him.

But Tommy's not leaving, he's taking Adam with him, so they end up on the rough wood of the floor, Tommy on his back, Adam weighing him down.

"I _need_ you," Tommy says again. " _I need you_." He pushes at Adam's sweats, and when Adam instinctively lifts to help, he scrabbles at his own fly, opening his jeans, twisting and kicking to get them off. Adam thinks to stop him―they're six inches from an eighteen-inch square hole in the floor, the rug’s indoors for winter and the planks aren't sanded, and they're up a fucking cherry tree when Adam has a bed just inside―but his body's on autopilot and he gives Tommy room to get his pants off, doesn't protest when Tommy grabs him by the arms and pulls him down again.

Adam's sweats are bunched around his thighs and Tommy still has his jacket on, open, but they're otherwise naked. They're farther from the window here, out of the shine of the security light next door, and Tommy's just a glint of eyes, teeth, piercings, and the soft glow of pale skin against the dark of his jacket and the weathered boards. Adam's holding himself up on his hands, trying to see something in Tommy's face, make some sense out of what they're doing on the floor.

"You don't fucking get it," Tommy says again, hands on Adam's ass pulling him down as he bucks up into him.

He's right. Adam doesn't. Tommy's so _mad_. And, wow. Hard. Adam's marveling at that―he didn't notice anything when Tommy was lying on top of him a second ago―so he isn't paying attention to what Tommy's doing, snaps back in focus to Tommy pressing Adam's hand to his throat. And, sure, Adam likes framing Tommy's jaw with his forefinger and thumb when they're kissing, but this isn't that. Tommy's _squeezing_ , like he's trying to get Adam to choke him.

"What?" Adam says. "Tommy what the hell?"

Tommy just stares at him, squeezes harder, worms his other hand between them to grope at Adam's dick. Which if it had started going hard when he'd felt Tommy's is decidedly _not_ now.

"Tommy!" Adam snaps, pulling and then finally wrenching his hand out of Tommy's grip, listening in horror as Tommy gasps brokenly like Adam was cutting off all his air.

"I'd fucking let you. I fucking _want_ you to. Want you to choke me. Cover my nose and mouth with your palm and watch me ’til I pass out and you let me breathe again. Want you to carve your fucking name into my ass, fuck me til my blood is running down both our thighs." He's still jerking Adam's dick, and fucking christ, Adam's getting hard. He's sixteen years old and the hottest guy he knows is touching his dick, but what the actual fuck is Tommy even saying.

"When you fucked me, I loved it. I fucking loved it, but I wanted it to hurt more. Everyone said how much it hurt, and you had your fingers inside me, and it felt so fucking good, and I wanted your dick so bad because I knew then it would hurt. Like it was supposed to. And it did, jesus, I mean― But it didn't hurt like I was still gonna be feeling it three days from now."

While Adam's trying to make what Tommy's saying make sense, Tommy stops jerking him and starts pushing his dick down toward Tommy's ass.

"Tommy," Adam says again, because what the fuck is he _supposed_ to say, but Tommy hooks his legs up around Adam's waist and gets Adam's dick lined up.

"You make me crazy. Like actually fucking crazy. I go insane with everything I want, everything I fucking need when I'm with you. I just― You can't, Adam. Please. Just, _please_."

Tommy's still a little open and slick from before―not nearly as much, probably not enough for this to be a good idea, but maybe enough for it to be possible―and everything in Adam's head is telling him he's got to stop, talk Tommy down from whatever ledge he's out on, but clearly his brain is not in charge, because he's letting Tommy drag him in with heels and fingers, letting him make Adam do this.

And god, he's so fucking tight Adam feels like his dick's being strangled the way he was strangling Tommy a minute ago, and Tommy's gasping, his legs are shaking at Adam's hips, but he's saying, "Yes― oh, fuck― shit― Adam," and Adam doesn't want to make him crazy but he wants so fucking much to make him happy.

"Legs―" Adam gasps. "Up." Ignoring Tommy's protest, Adam sits back on his knees and hooks his arms under Tommy's thighs. As soon as Tommy gets what he's doing, he helps, and then Adam's lining up again, pushing back inside.

It's still tight, but better; he just wishes he leaked as much as Tommy so there wasn't so much friction. He licks his fingers, smears spit on the underside of his dick where the drag is worst, and gets another inch or two inside. Tommy's hissing through his teeth, has a death grip on Adam's forearms propped next to his waist, and Adam wants to ask if this is good, if this is enough, but he's scared of the answer.

Adam can move a little, but it's not really fucking; the drag is still too much. Shifting his weight to his left arm, he feels for Tommy's dick with his right hand, hoping to make this better for him, maybe checking if he's still hard. His fingers find the slick on Tommy's belly, more on the head of his cock, and maybe―

Tommy always gets wetter when Adam plays with his balls, so Adam tries it, rubs the base of his cock, and is rewarded with a helpless-sounding moan from Tommy, and enough precome to rub around Tommy's hole and Adam's dick. It's not great, but it's much better than spit.

"Fucking hell, Adam. What―" Tommy's question is cut off by Adam fucking forward with a sharp jab of his hips.

He still can't get all the way in, but it's enough to make the air hitch in Tommy's throat, another bubble of precome spill onto his stomach. Adam drags his fingers through it, smears it around the base of his dick, and grinds forward until Tommy's folded right in half, Adam's hips resting on his ass.

"Fuck," Tommy says, a tight crushed sound, and Adam snaps his hips again, driving Tommy upward, skidding on his shoulders toward the wall. Adam has to inch his hobbled knees forward to get the leverage to pull out and slam in again without just falling on Tommy and crushing him, and he's struck again with how fucking ridiculous this is to be doing this here, but Tommy whimpers, digs blunt nails into Adam's arms, and it's just so fucking _desperate_.

Adam keeps feeling like he's falling, can't keep his knees under him, and then Tommy cries out as his head hits the wall, the nylon of his jacket too slippery on the floor. Adam stops, tries to apologize, but Tommy lets go Adam's arm with his right hand, puts it up to cushion his head, and says, "Don't you― Don't― dare stop."

His dick, his hips, his fucking heartbeat are all in complete agreement, and it honestly doesn't matter at all that Adam's brain thinks this is a fucking stupid idea, that they should be talking about this or something.

"Tommy, Tommy, Tommy, Tommy," Adam's saying, letting Tommy's legs go as he drops to his elbows, grinding deeper now instead of fucking in and out, and he can hear his voice breaking, realizes he's crying, and nothing in his sex ed classes told him sex could feel like this.

Sliding his hands between Tommy's back and his jacket, Adam grips his shoulders, pulls him away from the wall, needing him to be closer, a vague idea in his head that there must be a way to get Tommy up off the floor, but before he can do more than hold on, Tommy comes slick between their bellies in a hot rush that takes Adam completely by surprise. It leaves Tommy limp and Adam shaking, and he cannot do this anymore.

With a low, raw sound he almost swallows, Adam pulls out of Tommy's ass and bodily drags him back to the beanbag where he holds onto him so tight he's honestly not sure Tommy can breathe. He tries to relax his arms but can't, tries again, and only succeeds when Tommy bites his chest.

"Sorry," Adam says. "Sorry. Sorry."

"Stop apologiz― what―" Tommy shoves at him, tries to get a hand down between them, but Adam catches his wrists.

"I'm okay," he says. He's so not okay. But he doesn't need to get off, and that's what he means.

"But you―"

"I'm okay," Adam says again, and presses Tommy's face to his chest, hoping he'll stop talking, hoping he won't notice that Adam's cheeks are wet.

Several minutes pass before Adam lets go of Tommy enough to pull his sweats back up. Tommy's jeans are still tangled on the floor by their feet, but he makes no move to get them, so Adam puts his arms around him again.

"Did I hurt you?" Tommy asks once Adam's tucked him back into the curl of his body.

Adam shakes his head, realizes Tommy can't see it the way his face is pressed into Adam's neck, and says, "No," trying not to let his voice hitch on the word.

"Do you―" Tommy's voice is so small. "You still like me, right?"

Adam's chest does a weird lurching sob that turns into a laugh―this is so out of control―and he touches Tommy's chin, tries to look him in the face. "You fucking _scared_ me. I don't― God, Tommy you scared me."

The shivering starts in Tommy's elbows and moves up his arms and down his chest. "It's okay, it's okay," Adam says. "I scared me. You wanted me to hurt you and I did it. I _liked_ it. What if I―"

"Just please don't leave me. Please, Adam. You don't ever have to do that again, but don't tell me we can't be friends anymore." He hauls in a breath so deep Adam worries his lungs will pop, but he doesn't stop shaking. "And don't― if you get a boyfriend or something, can you not tell me?"

Gripping tight to Tommy's arms, Adam shoves him far enough away to look him in the eye. "What the fuck, Tommy," he demands. “I’m not going to― I don't know what I'm supposed to do here.”

Tommy struggles in his hold, trying to duck his head, hide from Adam's stare.

"I can't―" Tommy twists viciously out of Adam's grasp, so Adam grabs him with both arms, letting him hide his face, but not get away. "I can't believe you think I would just leave you. Fucking stupidest thing I've ever heard. Jesus."

"'m not stupid," Tommy says.

Christ. "Stupidest _thing_. Not _you're_ stupid."

"But I scared you." Tommy's struggling to get away again.

The shocked-hollow fear Adam felt when he realized he'd made Tommy come by fucking him into a wall turns to crushed-lungs racing-heart panic. He can't imagine how he's going to fix this. Worse than Tommy hating him is Tommy thinking Adam hates _him_. And nothing Adam imagines saying sounds like it will make things any better. He's still trying to form words when Tommy pushes hard against his chest.

"Can you let me go?" Tommy sounds worried Adam's gonna say no. Which isn't totally surprising, because Adam hasn't exactly been responding to his struggles, still wants to say no, even though he knows that will make things worse. "I'm cold," Tommy adds.

"Okay." Reluctantly―even though he's cold too and figures a change of scene would do them both good―Adam opens his arms and lets Tommy sit up.

While Adam's watching Tommy pull on his jeans, he blurts, "Take a bath with me." He didn't mean to say it, is pretty sure it's a line from a book he got off his grandmother's shelf when he was stuck inside on a rainy day one summer. Some romance with a brooding hero who swept in to rescue a hard-done-by woman from a fate worse than death or something and then seduced her in a bubble bath. It was stupid even in the context of the stupid book. It's even stupider now.

Unsurprisingly, Tommy looks at him like he's crazy.

"Sorry. Never mind," Adam says, but Tommy interrupts: "Maybe that would― I'm really cold."

Adam wants to carry Tommy down the ladder, but a) Tommy would probably punch him if he tried, and b) Adam would likely fall and kill them both. He does go first though, so he can catch Tommy if he shivers himself right off the rungs.

They don't talk as they go inside and up to his parents' bathroom. They don't talk while Adam turns on the taps, adjusts the temperature, looks through his mom's things to find some bubbles that don't smell like flowers. Adam leaves Tommy sitting silently on the toilet lid while he goes to get their towels out of the bathroom he shares with Neil. When he comes back, Tommy's sitting in water up to his waist, hunched near the taps, leaving two thirds of the tub for Adam to get in behind him. Adam decides to take that as a good sign, ignoring the fact that it looks like Tommy's trying to crawl inside his own skin.

Watching Tommy rub a thumb back and forth on his knee, Adam strips and climbs into the bath. "Is this okay?" he says, touching Tommy's shoulders. Tommy doesn't lean back, but he does unwind his arms from around his legs, so Adam fits his calves either side of Tommy's hips and tugs gently. Bubbles bob around his knees as the curl of Tommy's spine gives a little.

"C'mere," Adam says softly, tugging a little harder until Tommy's nestled between his thighs, leaning back against his chest. When the bath fills (so much more quickly with two people in it, and this is way more fun than the displacement experiments they did in physics class, even though Adam's freaking and Tommy's being all creepy and silent), Adam turns it off with his toes, and the quiet presses on his ears.

"Is this weird?" he asks.

Tommy tilts his head back, shooting him a cryptic look.

"It's weird." Adam says.

Looking away again, Tommy wiggles so his shoulder blades dig pointedly into Adam's ribs. "Shut up?" Adam asks.

And he finally gets an answer, though it's only a nod and Tommy threading his fingers through Adam's, pulling Adam's arms around his chest. The quiet turns peaceful, and Adam's lungs start to thaw.

For a minute or so Adam thinks he's going to have to wait forever for Tommy to say something first, but then Tommy squeezes his fingers and speaks. "I know you won't really hurt me."

Adam wants to ask how he knows. Adam doesn't even know that.

"Even when you―" he waves his hand, leaving Adam's pressed wetly to his stomach. "When that, it wasn't, you know."

"I don't know," Adam admits.

"It hurt like getting your ears pierced. Not like... Not like getting punched or whatever."

Neil’s the only person who’s ever seriously punched Adam, and even though Adam’s cheekbone was bruised for days, it actually didn't hurt nearly as much as getting his ear pierced. But it also didn't make him even a little bit hard, and he totally gets what Tommy's saying. "You're okay then?"

Tommy nods, his hair scratchy on Adam's damp chest.

They stay in the bath until the water gets cold, and then Adam stands Tommy under the shower’s spray, rinsing the bubbles off and warming him up again. “Do you―“ Adam starts when they get back to his room, wondering if Tommy wants to put pajamas on or anything, but Tommy murmurs, “Talk in the morning. Sleep now,” crawling under the covers, so Adam joins him.

 

Adam swims to consciousness in semi-darkness, with no alarm going off and no square of hall light indicating a parent has been in to wake him, then remembers that it's the weekend and his parents are out of town. Tommy's here. But before he can reach for his boyfriend in the bed next to him, there's a voice near his shoulder.

"My uncle got in an accident and my mom wants me home." Tommy's dressed already, standing by the bed, words spilling out in a deluge. "He's okay and everything but he needs to rest and―"

"Sure," Adam interrupts, mouth sleep-sticky, before Tommy can talk himself into a frenzy. "Of course. Do you need―" Accident. Uncle. Home. The words line up in Adam's still-dozy brain. Tommy's leaving. Before sunup. Before they can have the conversation Tommy promised they'd have once he'd slept. "I can give you a ride?” Adam blinks Tommy into clearer focus, but he’s still dressed and ready to go. “I mean, I'm not supposed to, but I think if it's an emergency―"

"No," Tommy says. "No― No." He's backing away, hand stretched toward his jacket still hanging off the corner of an open dresser drawer where Adam dumped it after their bath last night. "Lisa's gonna― no."

Trying to dig his way out of the blankets, Adam thrashes around, thinking he should walk Tommy downstairs, make him coffee, at least offer him a coke. Make sure he's okay. But Tommy flaps his hands, says, "no," again, mutters, "I'll call you," and then the bedroom door is shut behind him and Adam's left in silence, any noise Tommy's retreat makes smothered by the carpet in the hall.

"Fuck," Adam says at the empty room. "Fucking fuck."

He tosses and turns and tosses and turns, but despite being exhausted, Adam can’t get comfortable again. Tommy’d promised that he was okay, that he still wanted Adam, and once they were out of the bath and dry, he’d folded himself into Adam’s arms to fall asleep. But the last time he’d said, “I’ll call you,” Adam hadn’t heard from him for three weeks. And that time he’d actually sounded like he meant it. This time was totally a brushoff.

His phone isn’t on the bedside table, so Adam untangles his legs from the sheets and gets up. When he discovers it plugged in to the spare charger in the kitchen, there are three missed calls, and Adam’s never been so delighted to be wrong in his life, except they aren’t from Tommy. Two are from his mom and one’s from Danielle. None of them are from this morning. Deciding calling now just makes him look like a loser, Adam texts Tommy instead: “Hope your uncles ok. Tell lisa I said hi.” He considers adding “love you,” but hits send before he can. Tommy pretty much flipped out when Adam said it last night; he’s not making that mistake again when he’s not there to see how Tommy takes it. There’s no immediate return reply, and since his boxers are lacking in pockets and there are a lot of dishes that need to be washed before his parents get back that night, Adam turns his alert onto loud and sets to work.

By half past seven the kitchen is sparkling, Adam’s bedroom and the living room are devoid of plates and glasses, and the dishwasher is humming quietly. Adam’s phone is also quiet, and he’s slid it open about four-hundred and seventy-three times just to check it hasn’t accidentally turned itself off. He’ll give it until ten. Just text something casual: _hope you’re okay_ or _see you soon_ or something. In the mean time, Danielle’s a freakishly early riser. Maybe she wants to go get breakfast.

Dani is over the moon about the idea of breakfast; her parents want her to help them babysit her visiting cousin, but also they like Adam and know she hasn’t been hanging out with him as much lately, so they’re willing to give her a break. She wants to go to Rae’s, but Adam doesn’t feel like waiting in line, so he makes her go to IHoP instead.

“How come you’re not making your boy breakfast in bed?” Danielle asks once they’re digging into their pancakes.

Adam wants to tell Danielle that he’s scared Tommy’s freaking out and is going to disappear on him, but there’s no way he’s telling her about what happened in the treehouse, and even the fucking in his bed feels too raw and personal, so he just tells her that Tommy’s mom needed him home for family stuff.

“Fucking family stuff,” Danielle agrees fervently. Then, “Oh, speaking of, did you see _Modern Family_ this week?”

Adam is mostly relieved by the change in subject.

By ordering extra toast and a side of bacon when their waitress tries to give them the check, they manage to eke out the free coffee refills for almost two hours, even on a Sunday morning, and Adam’s feeling much better by the time they finally tumble back out into the winter sunshine.

“Fuck,” Danielle says, checking her phone. “If I don’t get home now and entertain the tiny terror, apparently I’m not leaving the house until my eighteenth birthday.”

Adam should get home anyway, vacuum, wash sheets and towels, generally make the house look less like he spent half the weekend having sex with his boyfriend in it. And his parents’ plane is due to land at half past four, so it would probably be nice if he got one of his moms’ casseroles out to defrost, too. But first, he’ll just send Tommy one more text.

 

Stephen’s mom calls at noon to ask if she can bring Neil back early. Adam would prefer it if she didn’t bring Neil back at all, but that obviously isn’t an option. “Mister Hanson will drop him off,” she says, voice tight. “I’ll be taking Stephen to the hospital.”

“Okaaaaay.” Adam’s thrown by the hospital thing. He’d figured Mrs. Hanson was just tired of having Neil around after a week. “What ha―“ he starts, but Mrs. Hanson has hung up.

Siblings are seriously overrated. When Neil comes through the front door pulling his suitcase and dragging his backpack by one strap, Adam’s folding towels hot from the dryer. “Was there a flood?” Neil asks sullenly.

So there are maybe kind of a lot of towels for one boy for a week, but it’s not like he used _all_ of them or anything. It seems rude to make a guest use a towel that’s all damp still because maybe you were too busy kissing after the last shower to remember to hang it up. Adam’s just polite, is all.

Neil, not so much. “Did you jerk off the whole time Mom and Dad were gone or something?”

“Go put your stuff away or something.” To Adam’s surprise, Neil doesn’t argue, just trudges toward the stairs.

“Hey,” Adam calls after him. “Is Stephen okay? His mom said she was taking him to the hospital.”

“It’s not my fault!” Neil shouts, and his bedroom door slams.

That hadn’t even occurred to Adam. He just figured asthma attack or something. What the hell has Neil been doing? And why aren’t their parents home to deal with it?

When he’s made his bed and put all the towels and his clothes away and Neil still hasn’t emerged from his room, Adam goes and knocks on the door. “I didn’t think it was your fault,” he says. “What did he do?”

“Go away.” Neil sounds like he’s crying. Adam’s not really in the mood for crying, but his mom would not be happy if she found out he just let his brother sob his heart out and didn’t do anything. Plus, Neil’s not really a crier. Something bad must have happened.

“I’m coming in,” Adam says, waiting another few seconds before opening the door. It’s so annoying when his parents don’t give him any warning, and he doesn’t want to do that. When he doesn’t get told not to, Adam cracks the door. Neil’s lying on his bed, face buried in his pillow, back shaking with jagged breaths, and Adam really _really_ wants to know where Tommy is right now and if he’s okay, but instead he goes and sits on his brother’s bed and lays a hand between his shoulders.

Adam rubs until Neil stops crying and turns his head to the side so he can breathe more easily. “Want to tell me what happened?” Adam asks softly.

“Stephen’s mom’s a crazy bitch,” Neil mutters.

“Okaaay.”

When Adam doesn’t call him on his language or bother telling him not to let either of their parents hear him talking like that, Neil continues. “We were playing basketball. On the driveway. Not anything big, just shooting hoops.” When his shoulders tighten up, Adam starts rubbing again. “He thought it would be awesome if we could do dunk shots. But we’re too short, obviously, so he went and got his dad’s stepladder.”

Adam is pretty sure he can see where this is going, and he really does hope Stephen’s okay. Although probably Mrs. Hanson would have sounded more terrified than pissed off if Stephen was like unconscious or anything.

“I didn’t even want to do it, but he made fun of me, and she was looking out the window right then, and then he climbed up and jumped too hard and everything came crashing down and his arm made this horrible snapping noise.”

“It’s just a broken arm though?”

“His _pitching_ arm.” Neil flops over on his side so he can look at Adam. “She came flying out of the house screaming, and he was crying, and suddenly she turned on me and started saying all this stuff about how I’ve always been jealous that he has a chance to play for the major leagues someday and now I’m trying to kill him.”

It does sound pretty much like she’s crazy, because the idea that Neil wants to play major league baseball is ridiculous. “But it’s not like you got the ladder out.”

“Tell that to her!”

“She was probably just scared seeing her baby with his mangled arm and everything. I’m sure she’ll get over it.”

“It wasn’t mangled. Ew.” Neil pushes at Adam’s leg, and Adam stands.

“Washer’s free if you need to do any laundry,” he says, nudging Neil’s suitcase with his toe.

“Mom can do it tomorrow when she’s washing their stuff from their trip,” Neil says, pulling his DS out of his backpack and rolling onto his back.

“Yeah,” Adam says. “I’ll let you suggest that to her.”

Neil flips him off without even looking at him, so Adam figures he’s feeling better enough to be left alone.

In an effort to not send Tommy texts every three minutes until Tommy replies, Adam tries playing video games, reading his book for English, reading the first Hunger Games book again, calling Danielle (she can’t talk, because she’s still on cousin duty), watching TV, practicing the music for the Spring Thing concert, and reviewing the latest chapters for both history and biology. He doesn’t get very far with any of them, but he does manage to keep his text count to five in just over five hours, which he’s hoping leaves him on the attentive side of the attentive/obsessed-stalker line.

His mom calls when their plane lands to ask him if he’d mind starting dinner, and he’s pleased to be able to say he’s defrosted something already, and even has some vegetables to cook. If she notices that he keeps her on the phone a lot longer than usual, she doesn’t say anything.

Neil, of course, makes dinner all about him, and how the world is ending because Stephen’s mom hates him now, or whatever. Eber grumbles about parents living vicariously through their children, and Leila tries to calm Neil down and promises to talk to Mrs. Hanson. No one asks how Adam’s week was. Not that he wants to tell them anyway.

 

By Wednesday, when Adam still hasn’t heard from Tommy, he considers telling Dani everything. But how do you tell your best friend your boyfriend kind of wants you to kill him, except he obviously doesn’t because now he won’t even talk to you? It doesn’t make any sense. Instead, he just lets Dani make fun of him for getting a D on their pop quiz in Bio, doesn’t correct her when she speculates that he was chatting all night with his boyfriend instead of doing his homework. He was actually playing Tetris ’til his eyes bled.

After dinner, during which Adam failed to contribute the the conversation at all, Eber and Neil head for the living room to watch the news, and Leila corners Adam in the kitchen. “I know it’s hard for you to believe,” she says softly. “But I have some pretty good advice sometimes. If that’s something you feel like you might need.”

If Adam would rather have his teeth pulled than tell Danielle what happened, he’d rather be boiled in oil and flung off a cliff than tell his mother. But she does have some pretty good advice.

“If someone won’t talk to you and you said you’re sorry, what are you supposed to do?” he tries, looking at his mom’s shoes instead of her face.

“Is Danielle mad again?”

“No,” Adam says. This was a bad idea. He starts putting dishes in the dishwasher.

Apparently talking is more important than chores, though, because his mom tugs his wrist until he puts the plate down and goes with her to the kitchen table. “Are you and Tommy fighting?” She makes him sit, but she doesn’t try to make him look at her.

“He’s probably just busy,” Adam says. “His uncle got in an accident, and he’s okay? At least Tommy said he was okay, but, like, he won’t answer my texts.” And what the fuck why does he suddenly feel like he might start to cry?

“Did you try calling him at home?”

Adam did, three or four times, but he hung up before the phone rang, so that doesn’t really count. “No,” he says. “I think it’s― we kind of had a disagreement before the accident thing, so it might be that, too.”

Covering his hands with hers, Leila says, “It’s hard to find a balance between giving someone space when you’re arguing, and letting them know that even if you don’t agree on everything you still care about them.”

“I don’t want to bug him.” Adam’s phone’s in his pocket, and it’s hard not to pull his hands out from under his mom’s and check it, even though he knows it would have chimed if Tommy’d texted him back.

“Maybe texts aren’t the best way to get him right now,” Leila says.

“I tried emailing. He’s not replying to those either.”

“I don’t need the car tomorrow. You can take it to school, then drive out to Burbank in the afternoon if you want. Maybe it would be best to talk to him in person.”

It’s really hard for Adam not to throw himself on his mom, but he’s pretty sure knocking her onto the tile floor and giving her a concussion isn’t the best way to say thank you, so he settles for pulling her into a hug instead.

“Drive carefully, sweetie,” she says into his neck. “And if he still needs a little more time and you’re upset, call me, and I’ll figure out a way to come and get you. I don’t want you driving if you’re unhappy.”

Adam’s pretty sure he has the most awesome mom in the whole world. “You’re the best mom ever,” he says, still half strangling her in a hug.

“And don’t you forget it.” Extricating herself from his hold, she pats him on the back. “I’ll help you finish the dishes, and then I think your dad would probably appreciate it if we went and got him some ice cream. Any flavor you like.”

“Seriously. The best.”

 

To Adam’s credit, he makes it all the way to fourth period before he can’t stand it anymore and has to go see Tommy. Though he’s not sure it totally counts as credit if he was really only waiting until the parking lot gates got unlocked for people with first lunch. Either way, though, he’s only cutting a third of his classes. At the last minute he gets Gina, who sits next to him in fourth and is good at forging, to write him a note. Otherwise his mom will never trust him to take the car again, and while seeing Tommy sooner would be worth it if it just meant he had to wait until he turned eighteen to drive ever again, he doesn’t want to disappoint her when she’s being so nice.

It takes forever to get across town, but Adam still gets to Tommy’s school before final bell. And realizes that he doesn’t actually have any kind of plan. He’s not sure where Tommy gets the bus, or if he usually comes out the front or if there are other exits. There’s a rent-a-cop near the parking lot, but even with his dyed-black hair, Adam’s still pretty sure he looks enough like a high school student that the guy would be asking a lot more questions than he’d answer. Maybe he should just go to Tommy’s house and meet him there. Except he might not be going right home after school. Adam wonders if Tommy might actually answer a text if Adam told him he was outside waiting. But if he really doesn’t want to talk, that will only make him sneak out for sure. Plan. Plan, plan. Plan. He needs one.

Movement in the corner of his vision catches him, and Adam looks around to see a gaggle of kids in gym uniforms jogging desultorily up the street. Near the edge of the group, chatting to a girl with long red hair, is a girl Adam remembers from elementary school. She was mostly pretty nice, except when he blanked and couldn’t spell maybe in a class spelling bee in fifth grade and she called him useless. He’s pretty sure her name is Jamie. Another thirty feet or so, she’ll be running right past his window. He turns the key half way so he has the power to roll it down.

“Jaime,” he calls when she’s a few feet away. She stops and looks around, before realizing where the sound came from. Warily, she backs up a few steps and peers in at him. “Adam,” he adds. “You were in my class in fifth grade?”

“No talking to perverts during gym class,” the redhead says, elbowing Jamie out of the way so she can see into the car. Then, “Oh. Aren’t you a little young to be a pervert?”

“I don’t think he’s a pervert,” Jamie tells her. “I think he’s a nerd.”

“No talking to nerds ever,” Jamie’s friend says. Adam hates her. A lot. But Jamie’s still his best hope of finding Tommy.

“I just need to ask you a question,” Adam says quickly, before Jamie can turn away. “Do you still know Tommy Ratliff?”

“The faggot?” the redhead says. “Yeah, we know that fucking loser. Why? You a pervert after all?”

Adam feels the blood rush out of his face then back in again, superheated. He can’t see; he can’t breathe. He barely hears Jaime say, “I’ll catch up with you, Crystal,” the words muffled by the pounding in his ears. “You okay?” she asks, but Adam doesn’t answer until she reaches through the window and pokes his arm.

“Never mind,” he says, fumbling for the ignition to turn the engine over and get out of here. Tommy has to come home eventually.

“No, I know him. You guys were, like, best friends, right?”

Adam manages a nod.

“Don’t worry about what Crystal said. She's kind of— Anyway. He’s probably not even gay or anything. Kids just rag on him because of the makeup and stuff. You know.”

Adam didn’t know. He had no idea. He nods again because what the fuck else is he supposed to do.

“So was that it? Because I gotta get back before coach misses me.”

Meaning to dismiss her, Adam says, “No,” instead. “Do you know where he catches his bus?”

“Oh, yeah. The bus stop’s around the corner. There’s a gate right by it.” She points at the far end of the block.

“Thanks,” Adam says weakly. She waggles her fingers at him and jogs off.

What the fuck is Tommy thinking wearing makeup to school if people are calling him fag because of it. If people are maybe― Is that fucking dick he gave a handjob to not the only one who's punched him over this?

Still shaking, even several minutes after the last gym-class straggler has disappeared inside the school, Adam takes the keys out of the ignition and opens the door. He’s going to walk to the bus stop and wait for Tommy, and they’re going to go somewhere and talk, and Tommy’s going to forgive him for everything that happened in the treehouse, and no one’s been punching him, and everything’s going to be okay.

Everything is going to be okay.

The bus stop’s easy to spot, with the sign-topped pole, and the painted NO PARKING box in the street, and when Adam fully rounds the corner he can see the wide gate in the fence, closed now, but with a second rent-a-cop walking towards it as the bell rings inside the school. Perfect timing. Now Adam just has to wait.

It doesn’t take as long as he expected. A clot of kids who look like freshman shove out the doors and down the stairs, followed by a girl digging in her bag, then there’s no one for a second or two, and when the door opens again, Tommy squeezes through. He’s got his combat boots on today, and his headphone wires are stark against his black hoodie, disappearing into the shadows the hood throws around his face. His shoulders are hunched and his hands are buried deep in the front pocket. The only speck of skin Adam can see is a strip above both knees where there are holes―new since Adam last saw those jeans. He looks like any other high school kid, but Adam would recognize him anywhere.

Not wanting to tangle with the security guard, Adam doesn’t approach Tommy until he’s passing through the gates. “Hey,” he says, and Tommy jumps.

“What are you doing here?” Tommy asks, not pushing his hood back, glaring up at Adam from underneath it.

Not exactly the greeting Adam was hoping for, but he’ll work with it. “We need to talk.”

“I’m gonna miss the bus.” He sounds like a sulky two-and-a-half year old. Though that’s probably redundant.

“No shit,” Adam says. “There’ll be another one. Come on. You’re the one who―“ They’re not getting into this on the street with half Tommy’s school spilling down the steps. “Just come on.”

Like it doesn’t really matter one way or the other, Tommy shrugs and falls in step when Adam turns back toward the car.

“I’m the one who what?” Tommy mutters as he settles in the passenger seat.

“You― I just thought you were all worried about me avoiding you after― after what happened, and now you won’t even talk to me.”

“Here I am. Talking.”

Kids are coming out the front gate, eyeing them through the windows. Adam jams the key in the ignition and puts his seatbelt on. “Fuck no passengers under twenty. Belt up.”

“Where are we going?” He’s fumbling the belt around his hips, so Adam ignores his belligerent tone.

“Somewhere not here.”

“My mom’s home.”

“Not your house, then.” Now Adam’s got Tommy next to him, he’s more pissed off than scared. This shit was one thing back in August, when they hardly knew each other anymore, but Tommy’s his best friend. Adam’s fucking in _love_ with him, and everything Tommy was saying about needing Adam, wanting Adam to slit his fucking throat or whatever― he’s gotta feel the same way. But apparently being a virgin wasn’t the only thing Tommy’s been keeping from him.

“We can―“ When Tommy pauses, Adam looks over to find him chewing on his lip ring. “Go straight here, then right at the light.”

Adam turns right where instructed, glad to see Tommy’s leading them toward the hills where there are more likely to be places to park out of the way of cops looking to ticket teenage drivers. His mom is going to _kill_ him if he gets a ticket. Tommy keeps giving directions, leading Adam finally to a vista point half blocked from the road by scrubby trees. It doesn’t seem to be near a trailhead or anything, so it’s unlikely to get much traffic at three o’clock on a weekday.

“Okay,” Adam says, turning off the car, unbuckling his seatbelt and turning so he’s facing Tommy in the seat. He doesn’t want anyone under the illusion that they’re going anywhere until they’ve actually talked. “Here you are. Talk.”

Tommy doesn’t turn, or take off his belt. He pokes his backpack with his toe and glowers at his knees.

“Tommy, seriously.”

Tommy just glowers harder.

“Fine. I’ll start. Why didn’t you tell me people at school were giving you shit?”

Tommy’s head shoots up at that. “Who?” he demands. “What?”

“People are calling you faggot. And I’m guessing from the way she said it that it’s not just behind your back.”

“So?” Now Tommy’s glower is turned on Adam. “I am a fag. So what?”

Now that he’s actually looking, Adam can see that Tommy’s offhandedness isn’t bravery, and it isn’t not giving a shit. He’s got that hunted look like he got in the treehouse when Adam told him he loved him.

“Is it just the name-calling?” Adam asks, even though he’s scared of the answer.

“What does it matter?" He says it in a way that says _no_ clear as anything. "It’s not a big deal.” He chews his lip again, won’t look Adam in the eye.

And jesus fucking christ. Adam wants to shake him until he stops being such an idiot. “I’m pretty sure my boyfriend getting gay bashed and I don’t even know about it is a big fucking deal!”

Tommy glances in Adam’s direction, so quick Adam almost misses it. “Your what?”

“My _boyfriend_. At least―“ Adam grabs Tommy’s chin, maybe a little harder than he means to, and makes Tommy look at him. “I’m assuming you will at least _tell me_ if you’re dumping me.”

While he doesn’t try to pull his face out of Adam’s grip, Tommy manages nonetheless to look very hard at Adam’s neck. “We’re, like, actual boyfriends?”

Adam cannot have heard that right. The last five months, his birthday, Valentine’s day, all the sex―Adam told Tommy he loves him―and Tommy doesn’t think they’re boyfriends? “What the hell do _you_ think we’ve been doing?”

“I thought― You never, like, said or anything.” Tommy lets his head sag in Adam’s grip, and Adam slides his hand back, gets ahold of the hair at Tommy’s nape.

“When I told you I loved you, did you think I was just trying to make you feel better?”

“You told me― You said you loved me?” Tommy sounds genuinely confused, not like he’s fishing to hear it again, and Adam can’t stand it. There’s too much space between them in the front seat.

“Come in the back with me,” Adam says, pushing the release on Tommy’s seat belt, opening his own door. “Please.”

Adam goes around, but Tommy crawls over the center console, and they’re a tangle of knees and elbows for a minute until they resolve themselves, Tommy tugged down with his legs over Adam’s lap, Adam’s arms around him. “In the treehouse,” he says quietly once Tommy’s stopped wiggling, is resting his head on Adam’s shoulder. “I said, ‘I love you,’ and you kind of growled and pulled me onto the floor.”

“I didn’t― I’m still not sure what was even happening there, but I couldn’t really concentrate on what you were saying. I’m sorry.” Tommy’s gone stiff again, like he was that night, scared Adam’s going to push him away.

Instead, Adam hauls him even closer, presses his cheek to the top of Tommy’s head. “I love you,” he says, soft but firm. “I love you, I love you, I love you. No apologizing.”

“Love you too,” Tommy says around a mouth full of marbles, and Adam realizes that he’s not only crushing Tommy’s ribs, but squishing his whole face into Adam's chest.

“I better let you breathe then.”

Keeping his hands on Adam’s arms, but getting far enough away so he can look Adam in the eye, Tommy says, “I am sorry about scaring you, though. And saying all that stuff about you killing me. I don’t even know― It was like I was somewhere else in my head, and no matter what I did I couldn’t get back.”

“Did I do that? Like―“ Adam is pretty sure Tommy didn’t take any drugs or anything, and he doesn’t know what else can make that happen.

“I don’t know,” Tommy says, honest, not like he’s saying what he thinks Adam wants to hear. “I think we both did? Like, do you ever get―when you do that thing where you won’t stop sniffing and licking all around my, after I come, my dick and stuff, and even when I say it tickles you can’t stop until I pull your hair?”

Adam nods. Even with the hairpulling sometimes it’s hard to stop. He doesn’t want to do things Tommy doesn’t like, but he just tastes so good that Adam has trouble getting his tongue to catch up with his brain. It makes him want to hold Tommy down and lick him forever though, not bare his throat for slitting.

“Does it feel like all you are is your mouth and the rest of you doesn’t matter?”

That’s not exactly how Adam would describe it, but he thinks he gets what Tommy’s driving at, so he says, “Yeah? Kinda.”

“When we were, you know, that first time, it was like that. Like, when I’m sucking you and I’m good at it―“ Adam keeps his scoff that Tommy thinks there’re times he’s not good at it inside― “but, like, instead of zoning out on it or whatever, I don’t know.”

More confused than he was before Tommy started, Adam runs his fingers through Tommy’s hair. “I won’t think you’re weird or anything. As long as you don’t actually, like, _actually_ want me to kill you.”

Nudging into Adam’s hand as though he wants him to keep petting, Tommy closes his eyes, but he says, “Not like I didn’t matter, but like I didn’t exist. Or more like I was everything and everything was you inside me? I really can’t explain it now.” Opening his eyes, he nudges again because Adam’s stopped, caught up trying to imagine what Tommy’s talking about.

“It was so amazing, it sounds weird now, I know, but it was the most― It was― and then you were gone, and I wanted you to come back― and you were, with the washcloth and everything, and I had no idea how to go back to being me.”

“I don’t want to make you not be you.”

“No,” Tommy says. “That part was good. I can’t explain it, but it was good.”

“But you said I make you a crazy person. And like, the choking and the blood and stuff.” Adam keeps his hand carding through Tommy’s hair, needing the comfort of it just as much as Tommy seems to, if not more.

“I’ve been thinking about that a lot.” Tommy slides his hand up Adam’s arm and starts kneading at the back of his neck. “I can’t stop thinking about it. How I― What it felt like, why I couldn’t― Just, going from that much intensity to, like, sleeping, like there was nothing― nothing to say it ever happened. I needed proof, or, not even that, but I was trying to get back there and figure out a way to make it not go away. But I did it wrong.”

That’s a total understatement, but Adam knows it’s a bad idea to say it. “Maybe we can figure out how to do it right,” he says instead. Not that he isn’t terrified to do that to Tommy again, but the good parts really were good, and he can’t pretend he doesn’t want to keep fucking Tommy. “If you can’t, I get it, but if you want to I really― It’s amazing, doing that with you.”

“I didn’t think you’d want to,” Tommy admits. “That’s why― I figured― I couldn’t face you telling me we couldn’t do that anymore, so I had to go.”

“You didn’t have to run off. I told you I wasn’t leaving you.”

“And I told you I was fine. I didn’t know you weren’t lying too.”

Adam isn’t even really mad anymore about Tommy’s lies, is mostly sad Tommy feels like he has to do it. “You don’t have to lie to me. About what you’ve done or what’s happening or whatever. I’m not gonna― You don’t have to lie to me, Tommy.” Leaning in, he rests his forehead against Tommy’s for a moment. “Was your uncle even in an accident?”

Looking sheepish, Tommy nods, then shakes his head. “Yeah,” he says, “but like two weeks ago. He’s fine now; he just jammed his shoulder, had a little whiplash.”

“Did Lisa come and pick you up?”

“I walked. And took the bus.”

“Are those cuts and bruises you sometimes have from kids at school?”

Like this is somehow harder to talk about than the treehouse stuff, Tommy goes back to leaning his head on Adam’s shoulder. “Yeah," he says, voice almost too quiet to hear. Then, "Well. Not all of them.”

Alarmed, Adam asks, “Are― Your parents aren’t?”

“No!” Tommy lifts his head to look at Adam, genuinely confused, then snuggles in again. “No. They aren’t exactly shining examples of support when I do get in trouble at school, but they’d never. Jesus. That'd be all I need. Just sometimes I fall asleep in Mrs. Ferrigut’s hedge and wake up with scratches or whatever.”

“So mostly they’re from people picking on you.”

Tommy shrugs.

Adam still doesn’t get why Tommy didn’t tell him, but then again, he never asked. “Does the principal know you’re getting bullied?”

“The principal said I was causing a disturbance wearing eyeliner to class and if I didn’t stop making people feel uncomfortable he would have to suspend me.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Adam stiffens, nearly pushing Tommy off his lap with the need to go ask the principal where he gets off.

“He didn’t.” Tommy pats Adam’s chest. “I wore it again and he didn’t. But Mom’s not like your mom. She got mad at me, not him.”

Adam wants to punch Tommy’s principal. And his mother. He wants to scrub Tommy’s face and tell him never to wear makeup again, and he wants to paint his face like a geisha and walk into Tommy’s school and dare people to start shit, even though the thought of doing that for himself scares the hell out of him. “I love you,” he says again, kissing Tommy’s forehead, his temple, his cheek, his lips.

Tommy kisses back, and they make out for a while, more tentatively than they ever have before―not lazily like when they’ve both just come, or slowly and deliberately like Adam guides Tommy into when he wants things to last―like maybe they’re both trying to be careful, make sure the other one’s on the same page. Adam’s dick seems to be unclear about the whole serious conversation thing and is on page _hello, you’ve been ignoring me for four days_ , but Adam continues to do just that in favor of trying to show Tommy that he’s here and not planning on going anywhere. Also, Adam’s had sex in the back of a car, and while there’s more room in his mom’s SUV than the back of Tommy’s uncle’s caddy, he’s not that eager to repeat the experience.

“I love you, too,” Tommy murmurs when their kisses have mostly devolved into nuzzles and hands stroking each other’s necks and faces.

“You better,” Adam says, cuddling him. “Because you’re stuck with me.” He feels like his smile is going to break his face.

 

The sun is setting when Tommy starts to shift in Adam’s lap like maybe Adam’s not the only one getting a little stiff sitting in one place for so long. “If I’m not going to be home before dark, I have to call,” he says, arching back in a stretch. “Your mom does know you have her car, right?”

Adam huffs a laugh. “Yeah. I was desperate to see you, but I’m not _insane_. She was― I talked to her. Didn’t really tell her anything, but she― She was worried that you weren’t answering my texts. She knows I― how I feel, I think.”

Tommy half stands, leaning between the front seats, presumably to get to his phone, and his ass is _right there_ and Adam really wants to bite it, but he just touches it instead, the side up near Tommy’s hip, and says, “How are you so hot?”

“Pfft,” Tommy says, and then grunts a little as he pulls himself back up, phone in hand. “You just like that I’m easy.”

Which makes Adam crack up. Not that Adam doesn’t know what he means―it hasn’t ever been hard to get Tommy’s dick out, sure―but very little else about Tommy is even remotely easy. Not since they were little kids.

“Oh, fuck you,” Tommy says, but he’s grinning, and poking Adam’s leg with his knee as he sits down and opens up his phone to call his mother, tell her he's safe and he'll be home later.

~fin~

**Author's Note:**

> It is said that writing is a solitary pursuit. I have never really found this to be true for me, even less so with this story. I owe a debt of gratitude to many people.
> 
> This story literally would not exist if it weren't for bluesoaring (autoshediastic). I wrote the original little scene a hundred years ago because she was having a crappy day, and it was her love for this Adam and Tommy that prompted me to keep going. And going and going and going. I spent almost a year writing this, and she never stopped cheerleading, being a sounding board, and figuring out what Tommy was thinking when he was eluding me. When I was sure this story wouldn't have an ending, she found it. So this story is truly hers from start to finish (and she might kill me if I don't make sure you all know that ;P)
> 
> She also made me an amazing soundtrack.  
> soundtrack by bluesoaring [here](http://www.sendspace.com/file/a8e1lv)  
> 1\. Grace Kelly - The Motion Sick  
> 2\. Mercy Kiss - Abandoned Pools  
> 3\. Revival - Orgy  
> 4\. Anone Can Play Guitar - Radio Head  
> 5\. Ramalama [Bang Bang] - Roisin Murphy  
> 6\. Modern Romance - Yeah Yeah Yeahs  
> 7\. The Hand That Feeds - Nine Inch Nails  
> 8\. I'll Believen In Anything - Wolf Parade  
> 9\. Mistaken for Strangers - The National  
> 10\. Last Love Song For Now - Okkervil River  
> 11\. Sad, Sad Song - M. Ward  
> 12\. Everyone's a Junkie - Our Lady Peace  
> 13\. In a Minute - Ours  
> 14\. Don Quixote - Pencey Prep  
> 15\. The Kids From Yesterday - My Chemical Romance
> 
> This story also would not be what it is without miss_begonia. She took an insanely long and ridiculously rough draft--it barely had a single finished scene in it--and gave me detailed notes on it like I hadn't seen since giving things to my thesis advisors in grad school. She uttered the now-imortal words, "use the treehouse". And not only that, she listened to me babble about Adam and Tommy and high school and teenagers and so much sex for HOURS AND HOURS over the last year. Plus, she too made me a fantastic mix. (how lucky am I? TWO MIXES :D :D :D \O/)
> 
> soundtrack by miss_begonia [here](http://mediafire.com/?nyxuyi6c1fggr60)  
> 1\. Goodbye, Bear/Love Me Dead - Ludo  
> 2\. I'm Not Okay (I Promise) - My Chemical Romance  
> 3\. Grand Theft Autumn (Where Is Your Boy) - Fall Out Boy  
> 4\. Bum Like You - Robyn  
> 5\. The Night Starts Here - Stars  
> 6\. I Would Do Anything For You - Foster the People  
> 7\. The First Taste - Fiona Apple  
> 8\. Games People Play - Lissie  
> 9\. You Are Not Alone - Mavis Staples  
> 10\. Rootless Tree - Damien Rice  
> 11\. Take Care - Drake (feat. Rihanna)  
> 12\. Waves and the Both of Us - Charlotte Sometimes  
> 13\. Slow Ride - Bonnie Raitt  
> 14\. Everybody Here Wants You - Patrick Stump  
> 15\. Skinny Love - Bon Iver
> 
> I also could not have done this without my beta, isweedan, and my team of pre-readers, many of whom only got to see a scene or two, but all of whom provided immeasurable help in a time of need: littlemousling, geeklite, and aislinntlc.
> 
> And thanks, of course, to i_bleed_magenta for all her organizational work running lambliffbigbang and to my artist, rude_bunny for all my boy!kisses which can be found [here](http://rude-bunny.livejournal.com/19240.html) <3


End file.
